A Child at Heart
by LaughterNeverDies
Summary: Sherlock and John discover their desires to start a family. Please review! x
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock stared at the little child in his arms with fascination. The boy's bright blue eyes glittered with a brilliance and blissful ignorance only the very young possess. He squirmed and settled himself contentedly into Sherlock's chest and let out a slight nicker of sleepy happiness. Sherlock drew his knees towards his body and folded them beneath them, cradling the baby in his arms, and leaning against the wall for support. He was utterly at peace with the world, so calm and relaxed. John watched his lover with adoration as he held the sleeping child against him. Sherlock felt his gaze, and looked up with a startled and apprehensive expression, "How am I doing?" He asked sincerely, shifting his arms gently to make the baby more comfortable. John felt the smile spread feverishly across his face, "Amazing. Really, Sherlock, fatherhood suits you." He said, Sherlock blushed a little and raised a long finger to stroke a smooth path over the boy's fine blonde hair and the delicate skin of his scalp. The baby gave a tiny hiccup noise and wriggled against his chest, feeling the steady beat of Sherlock's heart quicken against his cheek, and clutched at the expensive white shirt. Sherlock didn't seem to mind, it was as though he could forgive the indiscretions of a child so innocent and new to the world.

The door to the nursery opened, and a woman walked in, her skin was flushed and she was panting with exertion. "Oh there's my beautiful boy, thank you for looking after him John." She said, hurrying over to Sherlock as he snapped out of his trance and almost reluctantly surrendered the child to his mother. "Thank you, Sherlock." She said, gathering up her son, Caleb, and fussing over him needlessly in a suitably motherly fashion. Sherlock got to his feet somewhat unsteadily and brushed off his clothes, John went and stood very close to him so that their hips touched and their fingers brushed absently. "That quite alright Harry" John said, curling his fingers around Sherlock's and running his thumb over his knuckles. Sherlock nodded and cleared his throat,

"Yes, he's a wonderful child." He said gruffly, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck distractedly.

"I was just saying how Sherlock looked very, uh, _right _with him." John said helpfully, Sherlock blushed a shade darker than before and shuffled his feet a bit.

"Is that so?" John's sister said with a knowing smile, "Well when Clara and I adopted Caleb we had literally no experience with children, but now he's just such a perfect part of this family, and he's really just settled in, you know?" She turned to Sherlock for a moment, "Have you ever considered adopting a child?" John snorted involuntarily. "I know my brother has always wanted children, and you seem to have a sort of knack with babies." She laughed musically; Sherlock decided he liked her very much. John felt Sherlock's hand squeeze his. "Something to mull over" She said speculatively, resting her son against her hip and winking at John, who's turn it was to blush. "Well, I need to get going, sorry guys; Clara's meeting me at the cafe at twelve." John nodded and they followed her downstairs, their hands still joined. Sherlock watched with interest as Harry helped Caleb into his little coat and secured the blue scarf around his pink neck. "Bye then" She said,

"Bye," John said, leaning over to place a kiss on his sister's cheek, and then on the head of little Caleb. Harry turned to Sherlock; he swallowed, smiled genuinely, and offered his pinkie to the baby, who grasped it tightly in his chubby hand, Sherlock shook it gently like he would an adult and Harry laughed.

As they walked to the main road, John was indeed mulling over what Harry had said. He wanted children, so much it hurt, and more than anything he wished that any child they had could be half of each of them, but he knew that was impossible. Sherlock refused to let his hand go, holding it tightly and securely in his own. He had removed his glove and occasionally ran his thumb over John's knuckles thoughtfully.

That night they lay in Sherlock's bed, their short, ragged breath becoming steady and controlled with effort, until at last one of them was able to speak. Sherlock rolled onto his side and gazed at his partner with lust drugged eyes. John laid on his back, sprawled over his side of the bed, the crisp sheets cooling his flushed skin, hands behind his head, staring blankly at a spot on the ceiling, a contented smile gracing his thin lips. "John," Sherlock murmured, ducking under his arm and settling himself against John's bare chest.

"Yes?" John drawled, resting his arm over Sherlock's broad, pale shoulders.

"I've been thinking..."

"Oh god."

"I've been thinking about what your sister said this morning."

There was a speculative pause. Then John said "I have too." He felt Sherlock nod against his chest.

"I want children John." Sherlock said simply, as though it were the easiest thing in the world. John's breath caught in his throat, he moved his hand and cupped Sherlock's face in his hand, trailing soft eager kisses across his temple and along his sculpted cheekbones, bringing his face to meet his lips. He smiled at he pulled back, and was delighted to see that Sherlock was beaming as well.

"If only it were possible to have a child that had your brilliant mind and features." John began,

"And your heart and love, and moral compass" Sherlock finished. They both were quiet for some time, lost in their own visions of their little family.

"Our child would be beautiful." John said quietly.

"Boy or Girl?" Sherlock asked raising his head to look at John.

"It doesn't matter, a little girl perhaps."

"Yes, a girl, I agree." Sherlock didn't realise he was grinning. "She would be though, wouldn't she?"

"What?"

"Beautiful."

"Yes."

"Your sandy hair would look perfect on our little girl."

"We can't do this Sherlock, you know as well as I do that it isn't possible."

"It is with just one of us. You could donate John; you don't need my genes interfering with our child."

"Of course I do Sherlock; I couldn't bear to have a child who didn't have your intellect and your frankly stunning physique." Sherlock chuckled.

"The world doesn't need another one of me, but another John Watson, that would be an invaluable gift." John let his hand ghost over Sherlock's muscled chest and absently began tracing circles on his abdomen.

"Believe me when I say that if there was any way for me to bear your child John I would do it in an instant." John smiled at his sincerity. He began hovering his hand over Sherlock's stomach, motioning the hill of a pregnancy bump on his slender form. He imagined the smooth alabaster skin pulled taught over the bump, where their child developed in safe and peaceful darkness. Sherlock stilled his motions with his hand, lacing their fingers together. "It would be an honour." He said with a smile.

"So you really mean it?" John said. The realization of his private dream quickly becoming a reality was almost too much to bear.

"With all of my heart" Sherlock said, capturing his lips once more. And John knew it to be true.


	2. Chapter 2

The young girl sat facing the wide window at the back of the orphanage; her delicate features were set in an expression of avid concentration. She had long dark hair which spilled over her petite shoulders and down the curve of her small back like a river of ink. Sherlock stood in the doorway, observing her as she dipped the tip of a fine brush into the water, sweeping the residue onto the grainy paper with an artful and practiced flourish. The girl watched patiently as the moisture permeated the scarlet paint and spread watery tendrils across the page. He didn't think she heard him approach, but she raised her head in quiet acknowledgement, her young voice rang clear as a bell, "Hello" she said. "I know you're there, I can feel you watching me." Sherlock nodded, though she still had her back to him.

"Hello." He returned, then, peering over her shoulder he said "That's very good." His opaline eyes flashed across the page in appreciation, where an accurate and startlingly graphic translation of the human heart took up most of the white. "Thanks, I think so." She said confidently, Sherlock chuckled. He reached around her "The pulmonary artery isn't properly aligned" He pointed out helpfully, his finger hovering over the imperfection. She frowned at her mistake, taking up the brush in her right hand and correcting the blemish with a flick of her wrist. "Perfect." Sherlock consented. The girl turned deliberately in her chair, extending a slender hand towards his chest; she looked no older than seven. Sherlock gazed in sudden wonder as his eyes came to rest on her face. She had full, raspberry tinted lips, which formed a perfect cupid's bow, and delicate little ears. Her nose was pretty and perfectly proportioned with the rest of her face, and there was a hint at the sharp, high cheekbones beneath the slight puppy fat of her flushed cheeks. Then there were her eyes. Well, her eyes were beautiful, almond shaped and framed with long lashes, their iris' tinted a warm honey brown, kind and loving but reserved at the same time, he recognised them instantly, they were exactly the same as John's. She had a strong, calculative gaze, and there was an air of independence and stubbornness about her. Sherlock knew instantly that there could be no other, it was her, it would always be her. He took her hand and she shook it purposefully, her tiny fingers lost in his grasp, he introduced himself. "Sherlock Holmes" he said, the girl smiled openly and replied in the same, self assured manner, "Pleased to meet you Mister Holmes, my name is Irene Adler."


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock smiled and his attention was caught just outside the window where the other children laughed and played below. "So, Irene, why don't you play with the other children?" He said, the little girl shifted uncomfortably, she turned back to the sketchbook which lay open on the table and stared at her painting, deep in thought. "The other children don't like me." She murmured, plucking at her skirt and removing some invisible lint from the hem.

"And why is that?" She shrugged,

"They think I'm weird."

"How so?" Sherlock prompted.

"Well the girls won't play with me because they play with dolls and I don't like that kind of stuff. And the boys are loud and they push me over sometimes." She elaborated, her smooth brow drawn into a frown.

"That's ok, in my experience, most people are idiots." Sherlock said matter-of-factly. Irene smiled genuinely. "What do you like to do?" He asked "Apart from painting splendidly of course." She coloured a little, pink creeping into her cheeks with her pleasure; it was delightful.

"I like to read" She replied sheepishly, kicking her feet against the floor. Sherlock nodded.

"What do you read?"

"Everything, adventure books mostly, I like detective stories too. I read Wilkie Collins and Charlotte Brontё" she said proudly, tilting her chin forwards a little.

"That's very advanced for one so young." Sherlock commented, visibly impressed. Of course he was reading Shakespeare since before he could spell, but that was beside the point.

"I'm not young; I'm seven and a half." She said defensively.

"My apologies young lady" He said, touching his non-existent hat as a sign of respect, she bowed her head in return. "You may be interested to know that I am a detective," Sherlock said, he almost laughed at the way the girl's eyes lit up excitedly.

"That is interesting, what is it like?" Sherlock noticed she shifted forwards on her seat in fascination.

"In fact I am a Consulting Detective, the only one in the world. It's a thoroughly enjoyable and worthwhile job to have. We have lots of adventures." He said, and was staggered by the clear and perfect truth of his words.

"We?" She said, intrigued.

"Yes,"

There was a comfortable silence. "Would you like to meet my husband?" He asked with a curious incline of his head, Irene smiled and nodded. She showed no alarm or confusion, no trace that she even registered the probably peculiar relationship between the two men. Sherlock offered her his hand, and she took it happily. As she raised her arm to take it her shirt sleeve was pulled back slightly from her arm, and Sherlock caught a glimpse of her birthmark, a cluster of irregular red marks circling her wrist and dipping into her upturned palm. The amalgamation formed a speckled band around her hand; the peppering of red blotched freckles mapped a concentric ring like a little bracelet. Sherlock adored her, and her uniqueness. Scooping up the book from the desk he guided her out of the door and down the darkening hallway.


	4. Chapter 4

John Watson rested his palms on the side of the crib, his fingers laced between the bars of wood as he stared down admiringly at the sleeping baby. The child's face was smooth and pink and unblemished by the cold outside, his tiny wet tongue traced patterns on his thin lips in his sleep, and he gargled and spluttered soothing little baby noises to himself. John melted.

For some reason, as is so often the way with babies, the boy then woke up. He fluttered his eyelids sleepily; a tired yawn stretched his mouth and threw the rays of the dying light around his soft, toothless gums. The child blinked at John, then he began to whine and grizzle hopelessly, John panicked, reaching down into the cot to pick up the squirming bundle. He held him close to his body and jiggled up and down on the spot like he had always seen people do before. Of course when it was other people it generally worked and the baby stopped crying. John cooed incoherent and nonsensical words at the child who eventually began to calm himself. When he had relaxed against him, John took the opportunity to study his wakeful face. His eyes were a light green yellow, the colour of dried grass. His hair was fair and wispy; John predicted it would be a dark blonde as he grew older, a shade darker than his own. The boy reached a tentative hand out to John, who was taken aback for a moment, but carefully lifted his hand so the boy could grasp at it. He gasped with the sudden overpowering wave of love which crashed into him with such force when the baby curled his tiny hand around his index finger. He gazed at the little fingers wrapped tightly over his own, each tipped with a pink nail. Without warning, John felt tears spring to his eyes, he blinked them away but they welled up again to obscure the corner of his vision.

The door to the nursery was pushed gently open, the hinges squealed in protest, John whipped his head round. In the doorway stood Sherlock, John almost couldn't believe it when he saw that brilliant man and knew that he was his, and moreover that he would soon be adopting a child with him. Their own little family, the thought of it made his heart swell with warmth every time. Sherlock looked nervous, his hands were folded behind his back, and then John noticed a second little shadow obscured by Sherlock's which hovered behind him, no taller than his waist. He bit back a cry of surprise and joy as Irene emerged from behind Sherlock, her hand twisted in his. John's logical mind was nagging at him that they had only planned on adopting one child, but the other part, the part which was utterly devoted and in love with Sherlock implored him to give his husband a chance. Sherlock coughed, "John, this is Irene" He said, Irene stepped forward boldly and smiled at him,

"Hi" She said.

"Hi" John replied.

"I see you've met Rory." She said, coming to stand by him, looking up at the baby cradled in John's arms with a contented quirk of her lips John recognised. John nodded, smiling at the baby. He barely noticed that Sherlock had drifted across the room and was now stood motionless behind him. Sherlock dipped his head and rested his chin on John's shoulder lovingly. "Rory is one of the quietest ones here, he hardly ever cries and he's really funny sometimes." She said enthusiastically, she sounded as though she was trying to sell him. Sherlock and John looked at her with amusement. She looked at the ground, "I just want him to have a loving family." She said quietly. They nodded in unison. "Irene has a real talent for drawing, John." He said, producing the girl's sketchbook from behind his back. He handed it to Irene, "Why don't you show John your artwork?" He said encouragingly. John shifted his hold on baby Rory and passed him awkwardly into Sherlock's waiting arms. Sherlock's face broke into a wide euphoric smile as soon as the child was settled in his arms.

An hour later John and Sherlock left the orphanage. They were both as happy as they could ever imagine being, grinning excitedly, and wandering arm in arm towards the road. The prospect of adopting two children was so thrilling that they couldn't even try to disguise their emotions. Irene had reacted so excitedly when they had put forward their intentions of possible adoption. She was selfless in ensuring that the baby be properly cared for and should be considered before her, but even more ecstatic when they announced that they were considering adopting both her and Rory. There was of course much to talk about, not to mention a vast amount of paperwork and assessments before they could become close to bringing the children to live with them, but they still held fast in their dreams of a family.

Sherlock laced their fingers together, holding John as close to him as he could manage. As the glittering lights of the main road became clearer and the rush of life and traffic could at last be heard above the rustle of the dying leaves in the trees, Sherlock bent his head close to John's ear and whispered enticingly. "You know, if we were able to conceive this child naturally, we would be, um..." he paused, searching for the most provocative way to phrase his next words. "...more sexually active than we are now" He murmured, nuzzling John's ear. John felt the warmth spreading to his fingertips with promise; he turned, causing Sherlock to wrap his arms around him in an enveloping hug.

"I can fix that" John replied, pulling his husband into a passionate kiss by the lapels of his coat. Sherlock folded John into him, and dragged his body to his so it was hard to tell them apart any longer.

"I love you, John" he breathed against his lips

"I love you too, Sherlock"


	5. Chapter 5

The sunlight dappled the expensive bedspread with a comforting yellow as it slid lazily through the warped glass of the old window of 221B Baker Street. Sherlock lay on his back, his breathing low and controlled in his sleepy state. The duvet was kicked back to the foot of the bed from the unseasonable heat of the previous night. The sheet was pulled up to half cover his limbs, sprawled erratically over the side of the mattress. The waistband of his boxers sat low on his hips, enough that the smooth arch of his pelvis was visible, the light pink skin pulled taught over muscle and organs. Travelling upwards, the golden haze fell on the pair of tiny feet which twitched and kicked slightly, their owner scrunching up the toes and relaxing them against Sherlock's belly so that it tickled the delicate skin. Baby Rory let out a happy little sigh, his mouth twitched in dream, his lips pursed in a pout. He smacked his lips, his chubby cheeks puffed outwards with the motion. His hands clenched into fists over Sherlock's smooth chest, burrowing his soft haired head deeper into his ribcage. Stretched out like this, Rory could lie comfortably in the short distance from Sherlock's abdomen to his collar bones. Tiny though he was, the couple believed that there was never a baby who was loved more. His father shifted beneath him, bringing his hand up to rest gently over Rory's back to ensure he did not fall. Sherlock absently ran his thumb over his son's fragile skull, caressing the light downy hair at the base of his neck, which was the colour of yellow hay.

John Watson observed in awe the peace and utter perfection of the scene he was presented with. Sherlock really did make an excellent father, and no one who set eyes on their family could say different. He no longer needed the nicotine or the guns to quell the boredom which plagued his restless mind. Their children were the only stimulant he required to function now. It had been but a matter of weeks since they adopted Rory and Irene, but already John could see how beautifully they had impacted on their lives. Sherlock was more docile now, easier to be around, though John never doubted that his passion still burned like a fire in his heart from the moments they stole to be alone, and the quick witted, eager and eccentric flair he replenished when he caught the scent of a new enticing case. The tea cups on the tray in his hands chinked together, John winced as Sherlock's eyelids fluttered open. He lifted his head from the pillow and craned his neck to see John over the curve of the baby's bare bottom. Sherlock smiled self-consciously, lifting himself upwards, cupping the back of their child's head in his palm and supporting his minute weight in his arms as he sat up slowly. He crossed his legs and laid Rory in the crook of his right arm. John walked forwards and bent down to press a kiss to his husband's forehead. Sherlock smiled, pulling him down quickly to touch their lips. "Morning" John said with a grin, settling himself on the side of their bed. He leaned over to brush his lips again to Rory's head, who gurgled placidly and reached up, clenching his little hands for daddy to hold him. Sherlock passed him willingly over, "Good morning" he returned. John took their son in his arms, and marvelled at the way his whole mood was lifted in that one action, the startling simplicity of cuddling his little boy outweighed any troubles that played on his mind as Rory locked eyes with him. Sherlock was sitting close to him, his fingers fiddling with the sleeve of John's t-shirt and stroking patterns on the baby's skin. It was then, with Sherlock and John looking down at him with unadulterated love in their eyes, that Rory Watson-Holmes gave his first ever smile.


	6. Chapter 6

John Watson awoke a little after midnight, his head fuzzy and drugged with lack of sleep. Not that it was a new feeling. He was vaguely aware of a feint tapping on his arm, then a pinching, and then finally a light cold touch being placed on his cheek as delicate, elegant fingers nudged the flesh of his jaw. He stirred and woke fully from a weird dream he was having about bats eating his shoes. He felt that it should be a metaphor for something but he couldn't think what. He was conscious of the stifling but no less reassuring weight of Sherlock's limbs curled around and folded over his own.

Irene cocked her head to the side, such as a bird would do, confused and annoyed that her father's sleeping was unhindered by her vicious attempts at jolting him into wakefulness. John huffed a breath and heaved himself up into a sitting position, making Sherlock grunt as he shoved him off. "Yes, love?" He said sleepily. Irene stood in her nightie, looking lonely and ghost like in the dark bedroom, the pale pallor of her skin almost glowing startlingly in the gloom. John reached out to her, she stepped forwards and he folded her into a hug, drawing her fragile frame onto his lap. "What can I do for you then?" He asked, fully alert now. He felt his husband move next to him and sit up as well. Sherlock rubbed a hand over his face, his hair was tousled and his skin held a waxy sheen, he looked exactly like John felt; exhausted.

Irene scrunched up her face; crinkling her nose and making the light smattering of freckles that peppered her skin stand out in sharp relief. "I can't sleep." She said timidly, kissing the end of her father's nose with affection. Sherlock gave a rumbling yawn and stood up on top of the bed. He stretched and hopped off onto the floor, making the springs quiver beneath him. He padded round to the side where the pair sat, and extended his long arms to pull his daughter into a hug. Irene jumped up and leapt into his arms. As much as she loved hugging John, Sherlock always had a height advantage that made everything that bit more interesting. She buried her face in Sherlock's neck, and he kissed her cheek, his skin was soft and bed-warmed. "Well," Sherlock began, but then there came a panicked grizzling from the cot to the right of the low double bed. Sherlock laughed slightly at the expression on John's face, one of valiant acceptance. "Why don't you and I go and read for a bit, see if that will help? Daddy can feed Rory." Sherlock offered openly, while facing Irene. John nodded; standing and brushing past Sherlock, letting his fingertips trail against the taller man's knuckles and giving him an adoring smile. John watched Sherlock carrying Irene downstairs to her bedroom, and then he turned to pick up Rory. "There there sleepy head, daddy's here don't you fret little man, we'll make it all better won't we?"

Some minutes later, John stood up from Sherlock's comfy armchair where he had curled up to feed their son. The empty bottle of formula milk sat on the mantelpiece, the light from the table lamp threw distorted shadows about the cosy room. John rocked his baby in his arms, he sung to him quietly in a low and soothing tone "Hush little baby don't say a word," He began, but paused as he heard the distant and familiar reverberating ripple of Sherlock's voice through the thin walls. He smiled privately to himself, the things that man's voice could do to him... John climbed the stairs. He laid Rory, now soundly asleep, in his cot, and started back downstairs. He reached the door to Irene's room, formerly belonging to Sherlock. They had agreed that it would be best for them to share John's room, and Sherlock was all too happy to oblige. On most nights it always used to be John's room that they returned to in anyway, Sherlock insisted he had the softer mattress.

Sherlock and Irene sat with their backs pressed together on her blue bedspread. Irene had chosen this particular colour of midnight blue because it 'reminded her of the night sky', and principally because she had a deep hatred of the colour pink. John was struck sometimes at how easy it was to make comparisons between her and Sherlock. They had both crossed their legs and balanced identical copies of The Origin of Species by Charles Darwin on their knees. John realised with a swell of pride and love that they were taking it in turns to read passages from the book. The room was softly lit by Irene's bedside lamp; the cut-out shade threw a distorted map of stars across the ceiling and walls of the small room, it gave the space an ethereal and calm atmosphere. Neither occupants of the bedroom greeted him when he entered, both being too absorbed in their reading. So John came and sat in the old wicker chair, plumping the patchwork cushion to rest his tired back and observe the couple. Irene took a breath, steadying her voice to speak once more, "The subject of instinct might have been worked into the previous chapters; but I have thought that it would be more convenient to treat the subject separately, especially as so wonderful an instinct as that of the hive-bee making its cells will probably have occurred to many readers, as a difficulty sufficient to overthrow my whole theory." She spoke in a self-assured manner, never stumbling or pausing on the trickier words. Sherlock continued without any indication from his daughter, like one fluid and continuous voice carried through them.

"I must premise, that I have nothing to do with the origin of the primary mental powers, any more than I have with that of life itself. We are concerned only with the diversities of instinct and of the other mental qualities of animals within the same class." This time Irene did not take over, but let her father read on into the chapter. "I will not attempt any definition of instinct. It would be easy to show that several distinct mental actions are commonly embraced by this term; but every one understands what is meant, when it is said that instinct impels the cuckoo to migrate and to lay her eggs in other birds' nests. An action, which we ourselves should require experience to enable us to perform, when performed by an animal, more especially by a very young one, without any experience, and when performed by many individuals in the same way, without their knowing for what purpose it is performed, is usually said to be instinctive." He finished conclusively, snapping the book shut with a flick of his wrist. Irene rocked herself upright and away from Sherlock, crawling over her bed to the headboard. She peeled back the duvet and slid under the sheets, drawing up the covers to her chin. Sherlock smiled, unfolding his legs and stepping over the piles of hap-hazard books strewn on the floor. He bent down and kissed Irene on the top of her head; she grinned, and reached up to peck him on the jaw. "Good night daddy" she whispered,

"Good night my dear" he replied. John felt a shiver go down his spine, hearing so much unconditional love in Sherlock's voice made him even more beautiful. Sherlock waited for John as he said goodnight to Irene, closing the door behind them. John reflected on how true that passage from The Origin of Species was to their lives. He had always known that Sherlock would be a perfect father figure, as he had been so certain that he would return his feelings, so long ago now. It was absolute, it was right, and it was instinct.

They went back to bed, Sherlock pulling John down on top of him so he could kiss his husband sweetly, like John was his oxygen, and he pulled him into his body. They settled into each other's arms, so that it was difficult to tell which one was holding the other. John held Sherlock's body to his, breathing in his scent and revelling in the calm and gentle atmosphere which had befallen their room. Neither said a word as they slipped into sleep, and the bright and brilliant wash of colour split the horizon, breaking the new and perfect dawn.


	7. Chapter 7

Saturday evening was a quiet one, as it had always been. Sherlock sat next to John with their thighs lightly touching. John had his arm around Irene's little shoulders, baby Rory snoozed contentedly, wedged safely and comfortably between two large cushions to Sherlock's right. Sherlock found himself reaching out absent-mindedly and stroking a path over the baby's short plump legs, stopping at his toes to give them a playful squeeze. He did this a lot, he realised, just holding his children, tickling them, soothing them. He convinced himself that this was normal behaviour, but he really felt as though he was checking they were real. It was impossible for him, the great Sherlock Holmes, to believe that he could be happy in the company of others, or that his life had begun to revolve around people, and no longer his work. The three 'average' human beings sat next to him were his everything, his life now, and he would do anything to protect this small chance at happiness that he had, however selfish that seemed. To the world they were just people, but to Sherlock Holmes, these people were the world.

Very soon, their little bit of peace was broken. The red and blue lights of the police car, which frequented Baker Street far too often to be normal, penetrated the heavy curtains and streaked sporadically across the faces of the people inside. Sherlock stood with resignation; he scooped up his baby and held him close, hugging him like he was his life-line. Lestrade burst into the flat; he paused momentarily to observe the scene, which was so typically domestic that for a split second he wondered if he had burst into the _wrong_ flat. Sherlock frowned, he didn't want to leave, and it was a new sensation. He remained silent and efficiently catalogued it and stored the information for later. Lestrade knew about John and Sherlock adopting the children, but he had only met them once before, and often forgot that the pair had other engagements. He nodded in apology, Sherlock sighed, and passing Rory over to John's waiting arms, he kissed his family goodbye.

John watched his husband sweep out the door, he didn't say a word, but gathered his son in his arms and took him to bed. He returned shortly after and ushered a sleepy Irene to her bedroom. After he had bid them goodnight, John came back into the living room and sat down quietly on the sofa to wait. He did this every time Sherlock had a new case. There was a time long before when he would have regretted not being able to follow the man he loved out that door, trailing his billowing coat out onto the streets and into the waiting arms of a new and dangerous adventure, forever the blind and loyal soldier. Now John waited. He would be lying to himself if he tried to convince that part of him that he didn't miss it; the thrill of the night air, the chase, the detection, the prevention of crime, the fluttering in his heart and the stolen kisses of reassurance under the stars. There was a disturbance out in the street, the clattering of quick feet on the stairs, and the torn face of Sherlock Holmes grinning at him as his body gave out and he collapsed against the door frame.

"Sherlock!" John heard himself cry as he propelled his own body towards that of his husband, crumpled on the floor. Sherlock waved an arm at him, but John swept his arms around him and half carried half dragged him to the chair. Sherlock's head lolled into John's chest, his exhaustion overwhelming him. John pulled a blanket from the back of the sofa and draped it over Sherlock's shoulders carefully. There was a deep and angular gash tearing the delicate skin of Sherlock's collar bone, and yet another slashed across his cheek and a graze at his temple. John laid Sherlock down on the cushions and ran to the kitchen to fetch a bowl of warm water, some cotton wool and gauze. When he returned, Sherlock was sitting up, holding his head in one hand and supporting his weight with the other. John groaned as Sherlock fell back again, there was blood on his fingers and he looked like death. John went to him, touching his shoulder and sliding his fingers soothingly into Sherlock's curls, cradling his head in his hands and sitting behind him. He laid Sherlock's head in his lap and began to clean the cuts to his face with gentle consideration. Sherlock sighed, letting John be his doctor for a moment, relishing the feel of his cool fingers on his hot skin. As John worked, swabbing the crimson blood from the gashes, he would lean down and kiss each little nick on Sherlock's pale skin, making the detective produce a sensual purring rumble deep in the back of his throat. John chuckled at this, and when the cuts to Sherlock's face were dressed, he helped his husband sit up, turning his body to face him. Sherlock watched John as he slowly unbuttoned his shirt, pulling the silky fabric over one shoulder to expose the broken skin of his collar bone. Sherlock hissed between his teeth as the wadding touched his wound. John frowned, kissing his jaw and turning Sherlock's face away from him. "Oh, don't be such as baby." He chided, dabbing the cut. They continued like this, exchanging little kisses and touches as John tended to Sherlock. is His

Sherlock and John were always careful not to be too intimate when their children were around. They never moved past the light hand touches and meaningful glances when the family were together. Sherlock didn't like public displays of affection, and although his relationship with John was one of the single most important parts of his life, he felt strongly that it was a private and special thing which should only be shared by him and his husband. He was well aware that his daughter, Irene, understood the concept of love, and so he made his feelings towards John apparent, but not too involving so that he could concentrate on things other than the softness of John's skin or the deep and beautiful colour of his eyes. But right now, their children were not around.

Sherlock increased the urgency of his kisses, pulling John into him. John could feel himself getting lost in Sherlock's lips, his breath hot on his neck. Neither of them noticed the little girl standing silently at the door to her bedroom...


	8. Chapter 8

Irene Adler watched her fathers as they moved against each other on the sofa; their legs tangled together, their breathing ragged. She had no inclination that she shouldn't be watching, just fascination. She understood, of course she did, more so than any other seven year old, significantly more than a lot of adults. She knew love in its many forms, and the scene unfolding before her was without a shadow of a doubt one of utter devotion and requited love. She turned and slowly walked away, allowing them this time, this private moment to themselves, to be with one another as couples should.

Sherlock snapped out of his hazy lust-filled stupor at the sound of the door to their daughter's bedroom clicking softly closed. John nipped his ear playfully, his hands roamed freely but Sherlock remained frozen and unresponsive in his horror. He slid out from underneath his husband, the heat where they touched dissipated as Sherlock raised himself onto his elbows. John touched his hand gently, that simple action communicating the questions he was too afraid to voice. Sherlock groaned quietly to himself, sitting forwards and dropping his head in his hands. John butted his forehead against his shoulder, "Shit." He murmured "Shit. I mean...shit. Oh God, Sherlock what are we going to do?" John asked, panic settling into his voice.

"Nothing"

"Sherlock!"

"No, John, we can't say anything, at least not until tomorrow"

"I can't believe that just happened." Sherlock shrugged submissively.

"C'est la vie"  
>"C'est la vie"<p> 


	9. Chapter 9

John Watson opened his eyes. The morning light glared painfully through the window, stabbing tiny knives of white against his closed eyelids. Once again his legs were pinned down, his arms forced behind his head. He sighed, wriggling out from under the Sherlock-blanket, which was surprisingly heavy considering it hardly ate. He heaved Sherlock's leg to the side, pulling himself free and tumbling off the edge of the sofa, landing on the floor with a disgruntled 'oof'. Sherlock rolled leisurely onto his side, curling into himself, his fingers clawed the leather in longing for the warmth of his doctor. John shook his head, if and when he eventually did, that man slept like the bloody dead. He took a deep, prolonged breath and ventured out into the hallway towards Irene's bedroom.

Irene lay in the bed with the covers drawn up to her chin, she was staring at some unseen blemish on the ceiling, her mind wandered curiously into the vast forgotten lands of her subconscious, while her fingers played a light rhythm on the duvet she gripped with both of her small hands. John tapped on the wood of her door with his knuckles; she looked up as he entered shyly. "Hi" he said quietly. John had been rehearsing what he wanted to say to his daughter since he had woken up, but now all trace of the carefully regimented words had flown his mind. He crossed the room and sat down on the bed, coughing uncomfortably. Then he had a brain wave.

"Irene," she jerked her head upwards at the mention of her name "When, uh, two daddies love each other very much..." He stopped, of all the ways to say this, of all the ways; he began this conversation with 'The Talk'. It was the very same talk he had received at the tender age of nine from his nervous and awkward father, the very same talk which explained in graphic detail the escapades of men and women in the bedroom, as well as women and women, and men and men, the latter information was courtesy of his sister, and came a little later. He frowned at his idiocy, turning his head to the side so he could no longer see his daughter's curious face staring complacently at him. His eye caught the violent red of her sketchbook lying abandoned in the corner. He was about to turn back again to reiterate the painful conversation, but he noticed the corner of a page poking out form the hardback cover. Not wishing to pry, but never the less intrigued, John leant ungainly over the bed and scrabbled around a bit on the floor for the spine of the book. He took it into his hands and laid it onto the bedspread. Irene carefully folded back the corner of her duvet, crawling over the bed so she sat cross-legged next to her father as he lifted the cover of the book. A cascade of paper rustled into his lap, each one held a delicate sketch of a person. The faced were strongly familiar, and as John turned the each piece of paper the right way up in turns, he bit back a gasp of astonishment. They were all drawings of him and Sherlock, together or either as individuals, artfully transcribed in grey over the white. He ran a finger over the likeness of his husband; the curls fell perfectly, framing his face in the dark shade of jet, the cheekbones were prominent and sculpted finely, the lips full and pale. What he discovered when he turned the page stole his breath from him.

The drawing was of him and Sherlock again, the light of the early morning illuminating their sleeping faces; their bare skin soft and gently shaded around the slight dip of their hips where the sheet was pulled loosely around their waists. He felt as though he was having an out of body experience, the drawing was so accurate and still, capturing beautifully their resting forms with their arms wound around each other. One of Sherlock's arms rested protectively over his hip, the long fingered hand curled over the fine hairs on the small of his back. John recalled the warmth of Sherlock's body against his, the feel of his breath stirring the hairs on the back of his neck, the flat planes of his chest and the thrum of Sherlock's heart beating steadily against his palm. He turned another sheet of paper over; confronted by the image of the supposedly private kiss they had shared in the hall the other night. Irene had made the action seem considerably more elegant than he remembered it being. The sharp eager teeth and the desperate drags on their lips he knew were there had been captured as a sweet and passionate joining of the two drastically different people in a simple moment. Each completed the other, both becoming the complementary missing half of a shared heart.

Irene looked worriedly at him, she was biting her lip in her nervous state, a little droplet of blood welled on her lip and she licked it away quickly. Finally John spoke. "Irene," he began, she nodded, she knew it, she had taken it too far again, drawn things she shouldn't, stolen their privacy. Her father breathed in deeply, this was it. "These are..._beautiful_" She leant back in her surprise,

"Really?" She asked, edging closer again.

"Really."

"Thank you" Sherlock then appeared unexpectedly at John's shoulder, he wished he wouldn't do that.

"Ah, you found them." Sherlock said in his velvet voice.

"Yeah- wait you knew about these?"

"Of course." John elbowed him hard in the ribs. 'Arse' He thought privately. The pair looked simultaneously at their daughter, "Thank you" Said Sherlock earnestly. John nodded

"Yes, thank you, they're perfect and truly lovely." Irene looked from one to the other in her shock.

"I thought you would be angry." She said in a small voice. Sherlock's face softened, with a delicate finger he tipped her face up to meet his. "No." He said "Irene we would never be angry with you, you've given us the gift of a wonderful daughter, and you have a special talent which we want to nurture, it was foolish for us to hide the love we share from you. Will you forgive us?" There were tears pricking her eyes, Irene launched herself forwards into the arms of her fathers, who hugged her close and kissed her head. Around her back Sherlock reached out to John, their hands found the other's and laced together. John looked again at the pictures and read a line in small cursive script which he had overlooked at first, positioned at the bottom of the page;

'_The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love, and be loved in return.'_


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand; his mouth stretched a wide yawn as he padded downstairs to the kitchen. He pushed aside the door and wandered through the living room, stopping at the end of the kitchen counter and leaning against the wall to watch his husband juggling breakfast while trying to give attention to their children. He chuckled subconsciously, and Irene raised her head, she bounded across the small room and leapt into his arms. Sherlock pulled her lovingly into a quick hug, pressing a kiss to her forehead and whispering "Good morning dear".

"Good morning daddy" she replied dutifully, burrowing her face into his neck like a frightened mammal.

"You're all up early" Sherlock remarked, more to the company of the room in general than to his daughter, as he tucked a wispy strand of her dark hair behind her ear. At the sound of Sherlock's voice, John relaxed and sauntered over to kiss his lips gently, before whisking Irene from his arms and setting her down on the counter to pass her a slice of toast and jam. Sherlock watched John bustling about the kitchen in his pyjama bottoms and an old grey t-shirt Sherlock knew used to belong to him. He didn't mind in the slightest, it looked better on John anyway. He could see the outline of his slightly podgy belly, which Sherlock made no secret of the fact he adored, and the bare skin of his hip when John reached up to get the cereal down from the top cupboard. Sherlock didn't know why he liked the fact that John was chubbier than an average man, but John was comfortable and Sherlock loved cuddling up to him at night, just to feel the heat and the softness of John's body in contrast to his own thin spindly frame. Irene finished her breakfast and ran up to John, closing her tiny fingers around his elbow and pulling him towards her to whisper something in his ear. Sherlock watched a wide smile break across John's face, "Yes of course, I'm sure he'd love to." He said as Irene dashed off to her room to get ready.

"What was that?" Sherlock asked, sauntering over and placing his hands on his husband's waist and leaning over his shoulder to kiss his hairline sweetly.

"Irene wanted to meet Lestrade; she asked if he would like to meet her" Sherlock nodded vacantly.

"Well I'm sure that can be arranged"

"It has" John pointed out. Sherlock frowned;

"What?" John rolled his eyes impatiently

"Today, we need to go into the station, Lestrade called last night. I knew you weren't listening to me." John said, sighing as he dried his hands on the dishtowel.

"Why do we have to go in?"

"Because generally running from the scene of a crime after being viciously beaten up is the cause for a serious conversation."

"Joy."

"I knew you'd understand." John said flatly, reaching out a hand under Sherlock's arm to rock the baby carrier where Rory slept soundly. Sherlock withdrew and hopped up onto the counter, swinging his legs gently and staring at his son as he dreamt. John rested his arm on Sherlock's knee and continued to tip the carrier so that it undulated soothingly. "Of course we'll have to take Rory with us." He said, without turning his head.

"I'll look after him"

"Fine."

"Good."

"Be nice to people around him, I won't have you teaching our son ways to insult people in ten different languages."

"Right, be nice to people. I can do that."

"Anderson is still a person."

"I promise no miracles."

"Sherlock."

"I'll try."


	11. Chapter 11

The wide double doors swung pivotally on their brackets as they were forcefully pushed outwards by the tall dark haired man, who strode into the Scotland Yard as though he owned it. There was a manner in his gait which commanded immediate attention, even from those who did not wish to give it. He was known for being intimidating and brash, his glare was cold and calculating, and his jaw was projected stubbornly. A tiny pink bundle squirmed in his arms, and his attention was instantly caught. Sherlock fussed over his baby insufferably, rubbing a finger across Rory's cheek in little circles and smiling softly to himself.

Sally Donovan watched from her desk in amusement. She used to find Sherlock Holmes unbearable, but having children seemed to have dulled his inflated ego and stilled his tempestuous moods. She remembered how she would call him 'freak', and in return he would humiliate her by revealing her private relationships and secrets for the world to hear. Now he was almost...well, she hated to say it, but, nice. Behind him trailed his entourage, his husband John, tightly holding the hand of his daughter Irene. They walked towards the D.I., who greeted them with a curt nod. Anderson appeared beside Lestrade like some sort of fungus, lurking and sickly looking, always turning up when you least expected and least needed him. Donovan shook her head to rid herself of the image of his gross hairy body which had suddenly been conjured in her mind. Sleeping with him had been a ghastly mistake, and she made certain it was not one to be repeated. "Aaah Anderson," Sherlock began, but cut the remark abruptly short. He appeared to be having some considerable trouble controlling his thoughts, clenching and unclenching his gloved fist in a clear display of anxiety. Anderson stood arrogantly with his legs apart and his arms folded across his chest. Oh god, there it was again, the image; she thought, forcing back the bile rising in her throat. He appeared to be bracing himself for the oncoming tide of insults, but none came. The detective remained silent and restrained, his eyes narrowed meanly into slits, the very constriction of muscle conveying all the hateful words he seemed unable to voice. Lestrade ignored the sarcastic, bird-faced man to his left and lead them into his office.

Once inside Lestrade's office, Sherlock and John took seats one side of the long desk. Irene stood next to her father, their shoulders lightly touching. Lestrade began to outline the fundamentals of the case, using elaborate hand gestures to illustrate his point. Irene listened intently, fascinated by the evidence and the crime that had been committed. Sherlock, on the other hand, looked bored. He had a soppy grin on his face, tickling his baby and cooing to him gently, playing with the fingers that curled tightly around his own. "Sherlock, are you even listening to me?" Lestrade said loudly, folding his arms on the table impatiently.

"Hmm, what, me, yeah sure" He replied absently. Sherlock turned his head to look Lestrade in the eyes. "Do you want to hold him?" He offered, shifting his hold so Rory settled in the crook of his arm. Lestrade looked taken aback; he hesitated for a moment before nodding slowly. Sherlock gingerly passed his son into Lestrade's arms. John had never seen Sherlock look so happy, being such a proud father, showing off his son to everyone they met, made John fall in love with him all over again. Lestrade's face instantly softened under the baby's gaze. He grinned subconsciously, "You two make excellent parents you know." He said quietly, entranced with the tiny child in his arms. Rory looked up at the silver haired man with interest.

"Thank you." Said Sherlock, taking his daughter's hand and nodding as she whispered something to him "Lestrade, Irene would like to speak to you about detective work." Lestrade looked surprised, an expression which frequented his face an alarming amount today.

"Of course" He said, Irene crossed around the desk, and the two were soon engaged in rapt conversation.

Sherlock looked a little bit queasy; his skin was pasty and more yellow than his normal pale white. John touched his arm with concern, "Are you ok?" He asked, sliding his hand over the cuff of Sherlock's coat and onto his hand which was icy cold.

"I feel a bit sick." He answered shakily.

"The morning sickness again?" John asked, rubbing his thumb over Sherlock's knuckles in small circular motions. Sherlock nodded with a frown. Ever since first meeting the children, Sherlock had been suffering from morning sickness, as well as other symptoms commonly associated with those of a pregnant woman. He had been throwing up nearly every morning, as proof that it was genuine, and started craving the strangest foods. John would stand in the doorway with his arms folded, concern painted across his lined face, and would occasionally crouch down to where Sherlock sprawled with his head lolling weakly over the toilet bowl, rubbing his back for him or pressing reassuring kisses to his neck and bare skin which seemed to relax him.

"Lestrade" John said loudly, halting the chatter, "I think it's time we went home, Sherlock isn't feeling too well" Lestrade merely nodded, smiling at Irene. They shook hands in a businesslike manner.

"Oh, wait. Here, I have something for you" Lestrade said, opening the draw of his desk and taking out a slim object which fit snugly in the palm of his hand. Irene fell behind as Lestrade extended his hand. She took the flat object which was laid there, examining it with a delighted smile spreading across her features. She held the thin sliding magnifying glass up to the light to study it. "No detective should be without one." Lestrade said with a grin.

"Thank you" She said

"If you follow in your father's footsteps you will achieve great success, Irene Adler."

When they returned home, Sherlock staggered upstairs, falling onto their bed with a groan. Irene had wandered off to read and study the marks on her windowsill which had been bothering her. No one cared to mention that Sherlock had spilt sulphuric acid there a few months ago for some reason, it was better to let her figure it out.

John followed Sherlock upstairs. He took off his shoes and lay down next to his husband on their bed. Sherlock had stripped off his smart clothes and was curled into a foetal position; wearing John's pilfered grey t-shirt and his boxers. John rolled over, cuddling into his side and stroking his fingers along Sherlock's hips. "Can I do anything for you?" He asked, burying his face in Sherlock's curls to kiss his neck.

"Mmh" Sherlock hummed in pleasure. "Stay with me" He mumbled. John snuggled closer

"Yes" There was a silence where the only sound was Sherlock's laboured breathing as John stroked his cheek to calm him. "I love you, Sherlock"

"I love you too, John" Another silence as Sherlock felt John's mouth twitch into a gradual smile where he was pressed against his shoulder blades. Sherlock rolled over onto his back; John put his arms around Sherlock's waist and nuzzled the dip between his collar bone and neck. Sherlock jerked suddenly, he clapped a hand to his mouth and threw John off in an attempt to sprint to the bathroom in time. When he returned his movements were steadied and controlled, he settled himself gingerly into John's arms. John kissed his hair lovingly and helped him get comfortable. There was a light rapping on the door, and Irene appeared in the doorway with a hesitant smile. John raised his head, "Are you alright love?" he asked. Irene bit her lip nervously.

"I broke a glass." She said, shuffling her feet a little. John frowned momentarily

"How?" He asked,

"I don't know, it sort of just, happened. I cleaned it up though, there's no glass." She said

"That's ok then," John smiled "Daddy isn't feeling well at the moment, do you mind if we just have a snooze for a bit, will you be ok?"

"Sure" Irene backed out of the room and shut the door quietly.

There was another silence. John slipped his hand under Sherlock's shirt where his skin was cold and goose-pimpled, warming it with his palm pressed flat against his stomach. Sherlock sighed comfortably. "John"

"Hmm?"

"Are we good parents? Like Lestrade said..."

John hesitated, "I think so."

"You're a good father. I feel so lucky to be married to you" John blushed self-consciously,

"Sherlock you are amazing with the children, I couldn't wish for a better husband" Sherlock drew John towards him in a tight embrace, kissing every patch of bare skin he could find. They lay together in each other's arms and drifted off to sleep. "John?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you"

"For what?" Sherlock took his hand,

"Everything"


	12. Chapter 12

Mycroft Holmes did not like children. It seemed to him that all they ever did was scream and cry and eat up finances. So it came as a surprise to all, not least himself, when he found that he instantly began to love his brother's children so utterly after their first meeting.

Mycroft had of course been conscious that his cold, unfeeling brother had adopted children. It was alarming to say the least, and he was certain that he would have nothing to do with them. He meant well, and tolerated his brother, as far as to say that he liked him. However, he did not want to be a part of the family his brother had established for himself, and kept his distance, watching closely through the surveillance cameras as the family at two-hundred-and-twenty-one B Baker Street went about their _normal_ lives. Normal was never a word he would consider associating with his eccentric and impulsive younger sibling, but he found that Sherlock was very happy. He smiled more now, laughed and joked and was more open to physical contact, although he had figured that out long ago. Not long after he had met Dr John Watson, and the man had begun to occupy a permanent residence with his brother, and as Mycroft observed the winks and light touches the two shared, and the blatant and painful sexual tension in their lingering glances, Sherlock had changed.

He had been watching his brother laugh and play with his children, hugging them, comforting them, and simply being a father to them, and a husband to John. There were moments when, in a fit of self-pitying angst, Mycroft would envy his brother. He wanted what he had, the love and irreplaceable sense of belonging Mycroft had never felt, reciprocated by another human being. Then he would break out of his trance with a jolt of cold reality, and accept that he could never feel that, and a little later, he would put his vulnerability and longing down to having a glass of red wine with dinner that night, on his own.

And so it was on an unseasonably warm, wet evening in early spring, that Mycroft decided to grace his brother with his presence once more.

The drab black car stopped just outside the door, the engine purring smoothly and the rain falling steadily against the tinted glass. His driver held the door for him, and Mycroft stepped out onto the wet pavement. The car pulled away silently, like a ghost drifting through the city, and left him standing alone, facing the ominous black door with the tarnished gold lettering. As he approached the steps, Mycroft caught the faintest bitter tang of wood smoke in the still air, reminding him, again far too often, that the seasons were moving onwards once more, and life was pottering on around him without him paying it the slightest bit on notice.

John opened the door to find his brother-in-law standing proudly on their doormat. He was, as usual, dressed impeccably, in a dark blue tailored suit and tie. "Oh, hello Mycroft" He said, resting his son on his hip as he held the door.

"I thought I would pay you a visit. See how you're getting on." Mycroft said languidly.

"That's very kind of you, branching out into the more mundane methods of communication are we? I must say it's a welcome change not to be bundled into a car and dropped off in some warehouse for once. Come in." John replied, motioning for Mycroft to enter the flat.

Mycroft stepped resentfully over the threshold and climbed the stairs after John, eyeing baby Rory as he craned his neck over his father's shoulder and strained to get a better look at this balding, middle-aged man who had so unexpectedly walked into his life. When they came to the door John pushed it open and stepped inside gingerly. Mycroft followed, only to be stopped as John stood in his way, pressing a cautionary finger to his lips to indicate that he should be silent. Once inside the tiny flat, Mycroft was greeted by the homely aroma of a batch of freshly made cookies cooling on the countertop. It was most unnatural.

Dr Watson seemed to have disappeared, and Mycroft scanned the room briskly, turning a full circle on his heels, for any sign of his illusive brother. He spotted him soon enough, draped in a terribly compromising position, upside down with his feet hooked over the back of the sofa and his head lolling close to the floor. Next to him lay his daughter, mirroring her father's actions precisely. Her face was sweet and young, flushed in the cheeks by the copious amounts of blood gravity had drained into her face. Mycroft noted how, up close, she had sharp cheekbones and thick lashes, full bowed lips and dark luxurious hair, she was beautiful, and she looked like his mother. A younger version of course, but like his mother, their mother even, because, as he had to remind himself, she was Sherlock's daughter after all, not in blood, but in bond. He wondered briefly if Sherlock himself had noticed the striking similarity.

John returned then, holding the plate of warm biscuits as a peace offering. Mycroft politely declined. "Sherlock isn't listening you know, you don't have to hold back" John pointed out with a chuckle. Mycroft's resolve faded, and he reached out, taking one of the biscuits.

"Do they often sleep like...that?" He enquired, watching as his brother's mouth fell open inelegantly and he began to snore softly. Irene, mercifully, remained as perfect and delicate as ever a woman should be.

"Oh yeah, though I don't think there's a particular reason for it." John replied, "They just find it comfortable, if you've ever tried it-" he broke off as he looked up at the taller pompous man, "No, I suppose not, but to me it's rather awkward. No reason to stop them though, to be honest it's the only time Sherlock gets a decent sleep when she's there with him." Mycroft nodded sagely, and was about to bring the biscuit to his mouth when a clear, deep voice rang out.

"Are you sure you want to eat that Mycroft? You know it'll go straight to your waist." Mycroft grimaced and replaced the biscuit with a quiet air of resignation, regarding his brother with a steely glare as Sherlock grinned lopsidedly and twisted his body on the sofa so his legs dangled loosely over the armrest. John sighed helplessly and crossed the room, plonking Rory down onto Sherlock's chest and touching their lips in an upside down kiss. Sherlock's face broke into a wide smile and he lifted his son into the air as the little boy giggled. Irene twitched beside them, her eyes snapped open, and she folded herself upright instantly, her wavy hair cascaded down her back and pooled around her shoulders, settling into a style which exuded a smooth effortless class very few possess, and even less seemed to be born with as she was.

"Coffee, tea?" John called from the kitchen where the monotone of a boiling kettle could be heard.

"Coffee" Sherlock and Mycroft replied in unison.

"How do you like it?" John asked, directing his question at Mycroft, who had taken a seat in Sherlock's armchair.

"Black, two sugars please"

"Sherlock I wasn't asking you." John frowned as he turned around to face them

"Just as well that I didn't answer then." Sherlock said with blatant impatience. John flashed a look around the corner, Mycroft looked up expectantly,

"Ah, sorry you both sound so similar." Both brothers looked at the other in confusion, and instantly turned away in distaste.

John came back, balancing three mugs, and distributed them accordingly. Irene appraised their visitor shyly, eyeing his umbrella which was damp from the rain outside. "So, Mycroft what brings you here?" Sherlock asked, going to sit on the arm of John's chair, letting their legs touch, and draping a possessive arm around his husband's shoulders. Mycroft cleared his throat and all heads turned towards him.

"I thought it was about time I got to know my brother's children," He said honestly. Sherlock frowned suspiciously, searching for some ulterior motive, and finding none.

"Well then perhaps you would like to meet your nephew Rory." He said, kissing his son's head and letting Mycroft take him in his nervous arms. Mycroft looked at the child in his arms, stroking a finger along his cheek.

"My nephew..." He said quietly, his voice had a husky, choked-up quality which made it very hard to hear him. Sherlock heard him perfectly.

"Yes. You have a niece too, Irene Adler." Sherlock said turning around to find that his daughter had mysteriously vanished.

"Adler?" His brother enquired, sniffing self-consciously.

"What of it?" Sherlock asked defensively.

"Not a Watson-Holmes?"

"Not a Watson-Holmes." Sherlock repeated

"We felt that, being quite an independent young woman, she should be able to choose to keep her name. 'Adler' sounds far more befitting of a lady, don't you think?" John clarified,

"Of course" Mycroft replied, smiling at the baby and rocking him against his chest. John reached out and snagged Sherlock's sleeve coaxingly, and Sherlock returned to the arm of the chair obediently. John had to stop his husband becoming too possessive and over-protective of his children, it was heart-warming to see him being so close to them, but Sherlock had to learn to trust other people to be responsible and care for his children.

Sherlock snaked an arm behind John's back and began to twist the soft, fine hairs at nape of his neck between his long fingers, making John shiver with anxiety.

Mycroft found himself instantly drawn into the baby's soft green eyes, the way he tightly held his thumb, and the wispy blonde hair covering his head. "Mycroft?" Sherlock said loudly,

"Hmm?" there was a short pause,

"You're grinning like an idiot."

Mycroft exchanged meaningless conversation with his brother and John, small talk which previously would have sent Sherlock insane, but he now tolerated it as any other human being. Irene Adler wandered back into the room. Like her father, she possessed very few social graces, and had neglected to introduce herself to her uncle when he arrived, having been instantly inspired by the strange face of the man currently sitting in Sherlock's chair, and had run off to fetch her sketch book. She walked over to the sink and had second thoughts "Daddy," she called loudly,

"Yeah?" John replied, it being impossible to distinguish by the term of endearment which of them she was referring to.

"Can I have a glass of water please?"

"Yep," came the reply "glasses in the top cupboard"

"Don't drink the acid, there's a good girl" Sherlock added as an afterthought. Mycroft raised an eyebrow in judgement.

"You let him continue with his silly experiments with the children around?" He said sceptically. John shrugged,

"They're not silly." Piped up a confident voice as Irene rounded the chair and hopped onto her father's lap with a full glass of water and her sketch book tucked under one arm.

"Oh and why is that?" Said Mycroft with amusement,

"Well only yesterday he discovered the melting point of a human ear." She said helpfully.

"And how did he do that, may I ask?"

"He used the kettle." Mycroft gagged on his tea and set the cup steadily down in the table.

"How resourceful" He choked. When he had recovered, he said "you must be Irene Adler" Irene nodded and extended a hand in greeting.  
>"And you're Mycroft Holmes, daddy's brother" Mycroft frowned as he shook her hand,<p>

"How do you know who I am?" He asked in puzzlement.

"Daddy talks about you a lot, sometimes he swears. He does that when he really doesn't like someone and he thinks I'm not listening."

"Good. Good to know." Mycroft said coldly. Sherlock gave him a winning smile from across the room.

Irene knelt by the chair where Mycroft sat, folding her slender legs beneath her and pulling her dress down over her knees. She stared transfixed at her uncle, and produced the sketchbook, touching the pencil to the page to begin her record of his face. Mycroft watched her apprehensively, but soon his attention was guided away from Sherlock's strange daughter to the benign conversation John reintroduced.

When he looked up, Mycroft was surprised to find that he had been sitting there for an hour and a half, and the baby had fallen asleep in his arms. Irene had finished her sketch and was now closely scrutinising his umbrella, her brow furrowed in concentration. "Why do you have a blade hidden in the handle of your umbrella?" She asked at last. Mycroft jumped, it was meant to be unnoticeable, the craftsman had told him so, but clearly he was a fool to think that he could trick any child of Sherlock Holmes. He dodged the question, making an elaborate gesture of looking at his watch. "Ah, time has, once again, slipped away from me, I must be off." He said, looking up to see that John had fallen asleep against his brother's shoulder. Sherlock gently woke his husband with a tender kiss against his sandy hair, not caring that Mycroft was watching with a gleam in his eyes. When those two were together, it seemed that nothing else mattered in the world; they never cared who saw them or what judgments they made about them. It was called unconditional love, and it was something Mycroft longed for more than anything right at that moment.

They stood stiffly and Mycroft handed Rory back to his father, but not before giving him a kiss on the head as a parting gesture of his acceptance. He felt the warmth of the baby's body against his slowly fading, but the internal warmth that brief encounter with his nephew swelled unexpectedly in his heart. John shook his hand "Well it's always good to see you Mycroft, got to dash, I have to make dinner." And he hurried away. Irene trotted up to him, "Would you like to see my drawing?" Mycroft looked to Sherlock, who nodded encouragingly. Irene handed him the folded paper and disappeared from view to help her father peel carrots, leaving the two men virtually alone together. Mycroft unfolded the sketch, taking in the perfect light reflected in his pale eyes, and the unflatteringly accurate portrayal of the wrinkles lining his face. It was amazing, far beyond the talents befitting a girl of her age. He tucked it in his pocket carefully.

Mycroft looked at Sherlock, with the sleeves of his expensive shirt rolled up to his skinny elbows, rocking from one foot to the other subconsciously and swaying his arms gently, gazing at his son with adoration, his husband bustling in the kitchen making dinner, and the appreciative giggle from his daughter Irene reaching his ears. It was so domestic and different, but Mycroft was surprised to find that it suited his brother absolutely. He smiled sadly, reaching out and placing his arm on Sherlock's shoulder in a lingering gesture of compassion. "You've done well for yourself, I'm proud of you, Sherlock" He said gruffly, patting him on the arm. Sherlock raised his head in surprise and in a surge of emotion he pulled his big brother into a tight embrace, as well as he could with the baby between them. They pulled apart and Mycroft saw tears moistening Sherlock's eyes, and felt them pricking in the corners of his own.

"That means a lot to me, thank you" Sherlock said. Mycroft nodded with a smile. "You're welcome any time to visit," Sherlock continued, "but if you tell anyone about that hug I swear I'll deny it." Mycroft laughed then, how very like his brother to resent the only display of tolerance they had shared since childhood. He turned to the door,

"I wouldn't dare." He smiled, walking away to the street with a spring in his step and a new found lightness of being.


	13. Chapter 13

Mrs Hudson climbed the creaking stairs to the flat where her boys resided. Her limbs were tired and her back was aching something wicked, but she bustled onwards, because that's what Mrs Hudson did, she bustled. She just could not abide those self-pitying old biddies with their arthritis and complaining. She just got on with life, because that's what she had always done, and she wasn't going to let her joints slow her down just because they weren't as young as her mind was.

As she struggled up the last few steps she could already hear little Rory screaming the place down, he certainly had a pair of lungs on him that boy! She pushed open the door and was confronted by the commotion and noise of a thriving family. John, bless his heart, was collapsed in the armchair dozing with his mouth hanging open, snoring softly. Sherlock, alarmingly, was at the stove wearing an apron, and holding a spoon out for his daughter to taste to liquid which bubbled there. Irene nodded to him with a smile, and Sherlock grinned back in relief, reaching over to rock the crying baby in his carrier which sat on the table in the centre. Sherlock stretched a hand up to the nape of his neck and ruffled his hair, long fingers lost in his curls. Mrs Hudson felt a pang of pity as she saw the dark loose skin circling his bright eyes. It was clear that neither of the two men had slept properly in a long time, as they were taking it in turns to nap in their chairs while the other looked after the children. She rapped lightly on the door "Ooh-ooh" She called in a friendly manner. Sherlock looked up with a tired smile, laughing as Irene ran up to their landlady and hugged her tightly around her middle, her small slender hands laced behind her back. "Careful!" He called, shaking the bottle of formula milk thoroughly and letting a few droplets fall onto his pale wrist to test the temperature, licking it off with a swift flick of his tongue. Irene grinned sheepishly at the older woman "Hello Mrs Hudson!" She said, Mrs Hudson smiled kindly at her and smoothed down her long dark hair, so much like her father's.

Sherlock lifted baby Rory out of his carrier and jiggled him soothingly on his hip, managing to silence his wails and subdue them to hiccups and a gentle snuffling. Sherlock smiled in a self-satisfied manner, kissing his son on his forehead and breathing in his powder sweet baby smell. It was one of his favourite scents, along with John's shampoo, newly washed wool jumpers, and tea.

He rocked his son as Rory suckled at the teat of the bottle, walking over to his daughter and their landlady, now released from Irene's arms. Mrs Hudson stretched to stroke the baby's cheek with her finger, making involuntary cooing sounds as she did so. She gazed lovingly up into Sherlock's face, which was of a more sickly pallor than usual, and noted the fine lines spider-webbing across his brow and under his eyes. "You poor dear, you look absolutely exhausted!" She said, touching his cheek. Sherlock smiled,

"I'm fine Mrs Hudson, don't fuss." The older lady was thoughtful for a moment.

"I know, how about I mind the little ones for an evening, give you two some time to be together?" She added with a suggestive wink. Mrs Hudson had rather poor hearing, but even she couldn't miss the bangs and scrapes of the furniture, or the low moans which used to come from the flat above her own. Sherlock coloured a bit, a pink flush creeping into his cheeks at the memories.

"That won't be necessary, thank you for the offer."

"Whatever you say dear," She peered past the tall man, "oh, good morning John!"

Mrs Hudson said, watching Sherlock's face light up as he heard his husband beginning to stir. Sherlock rushed to his side and planted a firm kiss on John's lips as he woke fully.

"I was just telling Sherlock how I would be happy to looks after the children for a night to give you two a rest" She said loudly so that John could hear on the other side of the room. John looked hopeful and nodded happily,

"Oh Mrs Hudson you are a saint! That would be perfect wouldn't it Sherlock?" He said, sliding his hand into his husband's. Sherlock frowned in contemplation.

"Fine" He relented, "I suppose it would be nice to have an evening together again." He said, then look at his daughter, "Irene, would you be alright for the evening with Mrs Hudson?" He asked in a concerned tone.

"Of course" She replied passively.

"Oh make it the night love, I don't mind in the slightest!" Their landlady said encouragingly. Sherlock nodded his consent. "That's settled then, you can drop the children round on your way out boys" Mrs Hudson said matter-of-factly. Sherlock looked at his husband and they grinned at each other in expectation.

-Early evening-

Sherlock studied his form in the mirror, straightening the collar of the open white shirt he wore, and plucking some lint from the lapel of his back designer dinner jacket. John's reflection appeared behind him, and touched his arm to alert Sherlock to his presence. Sherlock turned and smiled, John reached up and smoothed a stray curl form his husband's forehead, letting his fingers trail down to tweak open the shirt so that it revealed a little more of Sherlock's alabaster skin. Sherlock's chuckle reverberated against John's fingertips where they were ghosting over his collarbone and he grinned.

John stood on tip-toes to touch their foreheads together compassionately. "Daddy I'm ready" Came the confident voice from the doorway. Irene held a large stack of books in her arms and an intelligent gleam in her eyes.

"Then what are we waiting for?" Sherlock replied, guiding her downstairs by the hand, while John wrapped their baby in a blanket and followed them.

They thanked Mrs Hudson and kissed their children goodbye, and soon Sherlock and John were walking down the street arm in arm, which was a feat in itself, considering the height difference. They hailed a cab at the end of the street, but Sherlock wouldn't tell John where they were going.

Soon they arrived at a nice little restaurant in the centre of London. The path up to the door was lined with perfectly rounded green plastic bushes, and the soft romantic lighting gleamed from behind the windows, which were gilded with understated elegance. Sherlock held the door for his husband, smiling as John stepped inside the hallway. It was perfect, not too flashy or expensive, but situated snugly between the marks of dowdy and posh to make the night special enough. They were seated at their table, and John looked around him, noting the pleasant waiters who brought them the menus and took their orders and didn't sniff at their choices or look at them up and down haughtily. Sherlock smiled at him, he had got it right after all. He knew John didn't like posh restaurants, but nor did he like eating out at Angelo's every night, this was the perfect balance. John reached across the table and took his hand lovingly, running his thumb over the pale skin and long fingers one by one. Sherlock hummed in approval. "John,"

"Mmh?"

"I love you." John blushed like a schoolgirl, noticing that a young couple seated next to them looked up and smiled and the woman actually went "Aaah" John liked this place even more now.

"I love you too Sherlock."

They ate their food and talked leisurely about their children and their work, and soon Sherlock grew restless. John frowned; his hand stilling Sherlock's drumming fingers patiently. "Sherlock, are you OK?" His husband seemed to realize his existence for the first time in a while, and smiled apologetically.

"It's probably a stupid emotion, but I'm feeling anxious about leaving our children. I know they're safe and with Mrs Hudson at Baker Street, but I can't help worrying about them." He paused, his face drawn with indecision. "Is this a normal thing to feel, John?" John grinned with relief and released Sherlock's hand to cup his face. Sherlock relaxed to his touch like a car bucking its head against its owner's hand.

"Of course it is, love, absolutely natural. You don't have to worry, I feel the same way. It's just your paternal instincts kicking in."

"My...paternal instincts?"

"Yep, sometimes parents can tell if their kids are in danger, or hurt-" Sherlock's eyes darkened with fear,

"But they're not hurt are they? You can't feel anything can you, John?" John chuckled, and leant over the table to press a reassuring kiss to his husband's cheek,

"No, I can't, they're fine." He said. Sherlock considered this for a moment,

"If it's all the same to you, I'd like to go home now." He said. John nodded, and Sherlock paid the bill.

They exited the restaurant and John slipped his hand into Sherlock's comfortably. They wandered around the corner, and John suddenly pulled his husband down for a long and desperate kiss against the brick wall. The street was quiet, but they still pulled apart after a short while breathless and grinning, exhilarated at the possibility of getting caught. "What was that for?" Sherlock asked, burying his face gratefully in John's neck.

"Just for you being you." He said happily.

-221B Baker Street-

Mrs Hudson laughed heartily as Irene leapt into her father's arms, registering a gasp of surprise and affection from Sherlock as he stumbled backwards. Irene wrapped her thin arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. John cuddled their son against his chest, and made a mental note to buy their landlady flowers. They ascended the stairs and let themselves into their flat. Sherlock put Irene to bed and joined his husband on the sofa, watching crap telly and feeding their son. He decided that this was where he wanted to be most, where he was needed, and where he would stay. As a husband, as a friend, and as a father to his children. Sherlock had found his place on this Earth, and it was here, right beside his husband John Watson, in front of a re-run of Friends, 'The One in Barcelona'.


	14. Chapter 14

**(Hi! Just a little thought, when you get to this sign here in my chapter (*), go onto youtube and listen to 'Twist and Shout' by The Beatles, and when you get to this sign, (**) go and listen to 'Hey Jude' by The Beatles as you read on, just a thought, you don't have to obviously! Thanks for all the alerts, favourites and reviews - K) **

"Irene, legs inside the flat please." Irene sighed inwardly, she was the daughter of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, and if anything were to happen to her she fancied that it would be more along the lines of getting shot at rather than something as unceremonious as falling out of a window. She withdrew her long legs from the cool breeze and hopped down from the window ledge elegantly, resigning herself to an afternoon of reading in her father's squashy armchair. She had commandeered it, this was her chair now, daddy would just have to find somewhere else to sit. "Up." She rolled her eyes and focused on the passage in the book intently. "Move." No response. Sherlock poked her in the shoulder with irritation. "Getup-getup-getup!" Irene blinked at him innocently. "Oh for the love of God- fine!" There was a huff of distress, and then there were long arms around her, lifting her clear of the chair and against his body.

"Hey!"

"Don't give me that. You asked for it young lady." Irene squirmed in his iron-like grip like a snake, twisting and writhing against his chest in an effort to get free. Sherlock settled himself down into the chair, leafed through the extensive volume of text he held to the page where he had left off, and drew his daughter into his lap. She frowned indignantly, and then opened her own book to the words she had been studying, resting against his chest comfortably, and feeling the thrum of his heart beating steadily against her. Soon Irene's lids grew heavy, and she relaxed into her father, letting him stroke her hair as she drifted off into a blissful sleep.

John watched the pair dozing together from the sofa across the room, lost in their own little world. He looked at their baby, also asleep in his arms, and rocked him gently until he too began to feel tired. When he woke up, John could feel the hefty weight of two people laying on him. He opened his eyes blearily to find Sherlock nestled into his side, hand fisted in John's jumper. He smiled to himself and reached down to smooth the curls back from his husband's face, sighing contentedly as Sherlock snuffled a bit in his sleep. One of Sherlock's arms was draped over John's lap where he lay, and the other was wrapped around his waist possessively. John stroked a path over Sherlock's fingers one by one, casually joining their hands together. Irene was curled into Sherlock's hip, her face buried in his ribcage in a position which didn't look that comfortable, but she wriggled a bit and a crooked smile tweaked the corner of her mouth. She was getting more like Sherlock with each passing day.

John groaned as he sat up, his shoulder was stiff and he leg had gone to sleep. Sherlock's eyes fluttered in a feminine manner, he raised himself onto his elbows to press a gentle kiss to John's lips. It startled John sometimes, how Sherlock could be so cold and unfeeling in one moment, and then he shared these tender and intimate moments with him the next. Sherlock gave him a wide smile, so full of love and compassion that John found it hard to resist the urge to kiss him again, so he didn't bother. Sherlock pulled back carefully, staring deep into the soft brown eyes and playing with the hair at the nape of John's neck again, making him melt under Sherlock's hesitant caress. Irene stirred restlessly against Sherlock's hip, and he ran his fingers through her hair soothingly. "Daddy I'm hungry" She mumbled drowsily. Sherlock nodded  
>"OK, spaghetti?" He said questioningly. Irene grinned. Sherlock stood up gingerly avoiding dislodging John as he did so, who was propped against him. John yawned and stretched the crick in his back with an audible pop. He shifted the slight weight of the baby in his arms and flinched as he woke up. Irene sighed as Rory began to cry softly at first, but with growing intensity. "Let me." She said firmly, John noticed that she had the same 'you're all so incompetent' tone that Sherlock adopted when he was working. He gratefully handed him over to her.<p>

"Could you look after your brother for a little while please?" He asked, standing painfully under a crippling bout of pins and needles. She only smiled as Rory was placed in her arms and he began to gurgle happily in the same instant. Their daughter looked perfectly capable even though Rory was getting bigger now. John received no discernable reply, but suspected that she had heard him all the same. Heading to the kitchen John padded up behind his husband and placed his hands on the pale bony hips where they protruded temptingly from beneath Sherlock's tight shirt. Sherlock jumped unexpectedly and smiled broadly as John slid his hands around to his cool abdomen in a warming embrace.

Sherlock was struck once again at how different they were from each other, yet complementary. He gave the Bolognese another quick stir before testing it against his full lips. He frowned, 'needs more salt' the newly formed culinary part of his brain conceded. He gave the saucepan a dash of seasoning and turned to place a chastised, sauce covered kiss into his husband's lips. John licked his lips thoughtfully, and then said "Too much salt." Sherlock narrowed his eyes and turned to the stove once more. "Kidding" came the whisper by his ear. Sherlock grinned as John tenderly kissed the last traces of sauce from his parted lips, he thought as much.

To say John Watson had been surprised when his husband began to cook for their family would be a gross understatement. Sherlock had no culinary knowledge to speak of whatsoever, absolutely none. But one day John had come home to find a big plate of noodles and egg fried rice, sweet and sour chicken, soup, and a large chocolate cake all crammed onto the little table in their kitchen. He seemed to have leafed through all the chapters of a brand new cookery book and made everything he found first. John never asked what brought on this new wave of intense desire to learn about mundane human activities in his eccentric other half, but he liked it. Now Sherlock brought him breakfast in bed, and he didn't have to buy as many cans of beans.

Sherlock let the sauce simmer for a while, wandering over to their old radio and switching it on with a flick of a long index finger. John watched in bemused silence as the melody of 'Twist and Shout' by The Beatles blared through the little box. (*) John grinned and Sherlock laughed as John began to shimmy over to him and grind against him. Sherlock took his hand and twirled him around, pulling John into his body and rocking with him to the familiar song. Irene giggled as John extended a hand and pulled her to her feet with Rory in her arms. The four of them danced together and laughed, Sherlock took his daughter's hands and danced with her, then John pulled her up to stand on his shoes throughout the upbeat tune. Sherlock took his son and began to jiggle him up and down in time with the beat, turning on his heels and swinging his little boy around. Rory looked thoroughly confused by the whole affair.

All too soon it seemed, the song ended, and the crackling silence was filled with the voices of the presenters laughing and joking and exchanging playful banter with each other. Sherlock, John, and Irene fell about breathless form laughter and happiness. There came a law bubbling from the corner of the kitchen. Sherlock pulled himself together and straightened up, "Ah, dinner's ready."

It was ten o'clock, and the children had long been put to bed. Sherlock lay languidly on the sofa, stretched out its full length, his limbs spilling over the seat ungainly. John was cuddled comfortably against his chest, and Sherlock's arm was draped over his shoulder, lovingly tracing patterns on the bare skin of his husband's arm. The TV was on, but neither of them were paying it their full attention. "John?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm getting hot here." John didn't move.

"John?"

"Yeah?"

"This is generally the point where you get off me for a bit." John twisted round causing a disgruntled 'oof' from his husband as he ground against the tender part where he was seated between Sherlock's legs. John's gentle fingers worked at the tiny buttons on Sherlock's shirt, pulling it open even further, "Better?" he said, kissing the alabaster skin before turning around to settle back into the same position. Sherlock leaned forwards and manoeuvred John so that he could slip out from underneath him. He had a problem. His husband lay defiantly over his left leg, arms crossed nonchalantly over his chest. "Problem?" John said innocently.

"Cow." Sherlock replied. John pursed his lips. Sherlock stood there balancing on one leg for a moment before an idea struck him. Sherlock bent down awkwardly and captured his husband's lips in a fleeting but no less passionate kiss. John leant into him desperately; his hands scrabbled for a purchase on the lean torso currently pressed parallel to his own. Sherlock pulled John into him, grabbing fistfuls of John's chequered shirt and hauling him up as his tongue ventured inside John's mouth. John fell back heavily as Sherlock whipped his leg out from underneath his husband. John frowned.

Sherlock looked at him triumphantly. Then, seeing John's expression, he decided to make it up to him. He went once more to the radio, and switched it on. (**) 'Hey Jude', yet another Beatles song greeted their ears. John's expression softened, and he laughed. "John Hamish Watson, may I have this dance?" Sherlock said with a raised eyebrow. John took his hand and Sherlock led them into the centre of the room. John laid his head on his husband's shoulder and they joined their hands, swaying to the music like a sapling in the breeze.

_Hey Jude, don't be afraid._

_You were made to go out and get her._

_The minute you let her under your skin, _

_Then you begin to make it better._

Sherlock moved one hand to rest on John's hip, pulling him closer so that their bodies were pressed together. They laced their fingers together where their hands touched, rocking on the balls of their feet and holding each other. John closed his eyes, his face buried in Sherlock's neck. They didn't utter one word, because no words were needed to express the depth of loyalty and love these two people shared. Their hands grew tired, and John looped his arms around his husband's neck. Sherlock let his other hand fall so that it too rested on John's other hip, stroking the lightly tanned skin stretched over his pelvis with soft and loving fingers. John shivered at his touch and tipped his head up so that they could kiss.

_And any time you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain, _

_Don't carry the world upon your shoulders._

_For well you know that it's a fool who plays it cool, _

_By making his world a little colder._

His efforts were not quite adequate, and Sherlock tightened his arms around John's waist, lifting him off the ground slightly to perch on his feet instead like a child.

They danced like this for as long as the song lasted, placing delicate kisses on each other's bodies where bare skin peeped through the fabric of their clothes. Sherlock dropped his head onto John's shoulder, nuzzling his ear. "There is nowhere in the world I would rather be right now than with you John." He murmured. John's chest swelled with love, and he squeezed the taller man tighter.

"Me too, Sherlock" he whispered "Me too."


	15. Chapter 15

Sherlock screamed out loud in his frustration, "John, I can't thread the needle again, HELP ME!" John stormed into the living room.

"I told you to let me do it an hour ago, but no, you're so stubborn!" He snatched the needle and thread from his husband's weakly resisting fingers and poked the frayed end through the eye. "There." He huffed, tossing the needle into Sherlock's lap. "I don't know why you're even bothering, you have a hole in your sock, and the obvious answer is to buy new socks!"

"But I want to learn to sew..." Sherlock said in a small voice, collecting up the sharp instrument and stabbing it into the woollen knit of one of his favourite grey socks. His tongue stuck out as he concentrated, John bit back the grin he could feel spreading over his face and turned to towards the kitchen again. "OW! JOHN I PRICKED MY FINGER!"

"Oh grow up!"

"IT HURTS!" John stomped over to the first aid kit they kept on the top shelf, an action he was used to performing far too regularly for his liking. He selected a plaster and peeled off the backing before plonking himself on the sofa, grabbing Sherlock's hand and holding it still where he was flailing. "I'm _bleeding_ John!"

"I know, hold still!" He didn't have a tissue to blot the droplet of blood, so he carefully lifted his husband's hand to his mouth and sucked his fingertip, tasting iron and salt on his skin. Sherlock's breath hitched and he watched, fascinated as John wrapped the plaster carefully around the pad of his injured finger and smoothed the sticky part closed over the joint. John reached up and pressed a healing kiss to Sherlock's forehead. "Better?" He said, patting the taller man on the shoulder and returning to the table where his work was strewn over the surface. Sherlock nodded as he turned away.

Irene wandered into the living room and flopped onto her father's chair, Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Look Irene, I fixed my socks!" He said. His face was bright and eager as he presented the grey bundle of wool to her. Irene lifted the sock up and scrutinised the black mass of spidery stitching over the tiny worn hole at the toe. She sighed, and plastered a fake grin on her face, handing it back to him.

"Great!" She lied blatantly. Sherlock looked thoroughly chuffed, inspecting his handiwork proudly. Another gift their daughter had adopted was Sherlock's unfathomable ability to lie through his teeth and make it believable. She sniffed thoughtfully at this revelation. It seemed that, quite remarkably, Sherlock seemed as unable to detect when she was lying to him as others did when the situation was reversed. Consequently, Irene was also incapable of knowing when her father was lying to her, which made her adopted gift pretty much worthless.

Sherlock was too absorbed in his sewing to pay her any attention at that point. Irene stood up and went through the kitchen, about to turn off to her bedroom when she noticed the door to her parent's room through the banisters upstairs, standing ajar. She swallowed. It was too tempting to go prying in their room. She didn't mean to be nosey, but it was curiosity which carried her up the stairs and to the door.

John dumped the pink rubber washing-up gloves on the counter and padded over to the sofa. He sat down again, leaning against Sherlock, who wrapped an arm around his waist, cuddling into his side in exhaustion. It was a Sunday, and they had little to be getting on with, so Sherlock held his husband close and they lay together for some time just feeling their hearts beat as one.

"Daddy, what's this?" Irene said as she entered the room. Her parents had fallen asleep in each other's arms again. John stirred, and shifted his weight from Sherlock's hip. "Sorry love, we dozed off, are you ok?" He said sleepily. Irene approached, holding out a neat morocco case in her hands. Sherlock's eyes snapped open.

"Where did you get this?" He said angrily, snatching the box from her hands. The little girl showed no reaction to her father's harsh tone. She hesitated,

"I found it." She said.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?" John asked, reaching out to touch the box Sherlock held in quivering fingers. Sherlock shied away, tucking the box by his side in an attempt to hide it form their prying eyes.

"It's nothing." He said, his nails dug into the pad of his other hand and his knuckles turned white.

"Sherlock, open the box." John said simply, but with malice. His husband swallowed, his throat constricted and his skin became clammy. Sherlock shuddered and produced the box form behind his back. Irene still watched curiously.

With his long, white, nervous fingers he lifted the dusty lid. Sherlock took out the bottle of clear, colourless liquid and set it to one side. Left in the box, nestled in the swathes of material was Sherlock's hypodermic syringe. For some little time his eyes rested thoughtfully on the sharp point and tiny piston. His eyes flicked lazily over the instrument, remembering the familiar numb coldness of the needle probing beneath his skin, and the sensual release of the drug flooding his system.

John sat motionless beside him, his hands clenched and stiff with anger. He stood woodenly, "Irene, your father and I need to talk. Please leave us alone for a moment." He said with little emotion. Irene didn't look at him; her eyes were fixed on the little case set on the table. John laid a heavy hand on her shoulder, moving it up to cup her face gently. "Please." He repeated. Irene nodded solemnly, and left the room.

Sherlock remained caught in his reverie, lost to the memories of his youth. John had no words for him now, so he stood silently and let the tension grow unbearably. John moved to his chair where his jacket was draped over the back, and pulled it around his shoulders. Sherlock looked up, scanning his face for some kind of forgiveness. John walked up to him, Sherlock stood. There were tears in his doctor's eyes. "How could you?" He whispered.

And then John was gone.


	16. Chapter 16

John Watson walked through the streets of London carrying a weight in his heart which was too much to bear. He wouldn't leave for good, of course. John couldn't ever leave that brilliant, mad, insufferable man for anything in the world. Sherlock was as much a part of him as his broken scar tissue in his shoulder. He needed him like he needed adrenaline, love, adventure, passion... like oxygen.

But right now what John needed was to be alone.

He found himself in Regents Park, aimlessly shuffling through the trees; he came to sit on a bench and stared wistfully out to the boating lake where the mist hovered just above the water. His thoughts drifted like the breeze, never settling for long on a single subject. It was getting dark and colder, John shivered, longing for the warmth of his husband's arms curled around his body, he pulled his jacket tighter.

Sherlock walked up to the figure seated on the bench, his breath ghosting in the air. "John" He breathed. John stood and started to walk away without a glance at Sherlock. No, this wasn't right, how did he make it right? Sherlock hurried after him. "John, please!" He cried as his husband continued to stretch the distance between them. "Stop" He whispered pleadingly. John turned around to face him,

"Sherlock I- I can't do this right now, I'm sorry."

"What will it take," Sherlock bellowed at the dark figure before him "for you to forgive me?"

John looked at the ground, and then to the sky, marvelling at the streaks of pink and bright crimson painted across the clouds above them. "I need to know what was going through your mind when you did that to yourself Sherlock" Sherlock said nothing, he stared longingly at the man he loved and willed an answer to present itself. John shook his head sadly and walked towards the water.

"That I was alone." Sherlock called after him. John stopped. "I was alone, and bored, and stupid." The other man didn't turn around. "I had no one to love." John flinched. He retraced his steps towards his husband until they were face to face. John could see the hurt in his eyes, and the shame. "Come with me." Sherlock said and John nodded.

They walked side by side, not touching, until they came to the road. Sherlock hailed a cab and they rode in silence. The car pulled up by the banks of the Thames. John stepped out first, and Sherlock led them to the wall which was being buffeted by the water. It was quiet and not a soul passed them by on the path. The streetlight gleamed like fireflies in the dusk, and the roar of traffic drowned out the lapping of the sickly water at the base of the bank.

Sherlock produced the morocco case from the recesses of his coat. John took a step back. His husband winked at him, and with a sad little glance at the object in his hands, ducked his arm, hurling it forcefully into the water.

There was a satisfying plop as the box broke the surface of the murky Thames, and sank slowly down to the depths to join the secrets of millions of people, coming to rest on the river bed strewn with bitter memories.

Sherlock turned to John, who stared into his eyes. "Let's go home" Sherlock said.

"Wait, there's one thing I need to do first..." John said, leaping at his husband and throwing his arms around his neck. Sherlock let out a suppressed sigh as John captured his lips in a passionate and lingering kiss. Sherlock pressed him against the barrier and John moaned against his parted lips, dragging them closer together. John stroked Sherlock's pale throat and his fingers trailed along his jaw and around the back of his neck to tangle in Sherlock's hair. Sherlock pulled away breathlessly, "Does this mean I'm forgiven?" He murmured. John grinned and pressed his forehead to Sherlock's,

"Oh yes." He replied.

The couple walked away into the night, their hands tightly holding. John frowned "Hang on, who's looking after the children?" He asked Sherlock.

"Mrs Hudson"

"That woman is a saint. I need to buy her something..." John mused.

"No need." Sherlock replied, holding out the box of chocolates he had picked up. John laughed.

"You're amazing" He said, nuzzling his shoulder affectionately. Sherlock chuckled.

"You seriously need to re-evaluate your perception of amazing John"

John smiled "Nope, I like him just the way he is."


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: This chapter is set when Irene is 14 years old, so seven years later, Sherlock and John are still living at 221B Baker Street. This is a one off, thanks to MrsCumberbatch for the idea; hope this cheers you up some more! **

Irene approached her father where he sat with his long legs bent beneath him at the table, his gentle hands working at the dials and knobs on the microscope. John was curled in the armchair in the adjoining room, the paper laid over his knees. Sherlock didn't look up as his daughter came to stand beside him, so she flicked the object she held between her fingers onto the desk in front of him. Her father twitched and glanced up. "I found that at the bottom of the stairs." Irene muttered. Sherlock stared at the condom packet blankly. He blinked once or twice and cleared his throat before answering.

"Thanks." He replied with a slight blush. Irene sauntered into the living room, un-fazed by their conversation. Sherlock picked up the condom and slipped it into his pocket nonchalantly. Well it wouldn't do to see it go to waste would it?

Sherlock turned in his chair to watch his daughter walking away, her long black hair swishing as she flopped down onto the sofa. It had come as a surprise to them that Irene's hair had darkened considerably since she was younger. She was breathtakingly beautiful, her pale skin contrasted with her dark eyes and her lips were now an even deeper shade of crimson. Sherlock found himself staring at her sometimes, entranced by her.

Rory trotted into the room, running up to John and throwing himself over the arm of the chair with abandon. John laughed and lifted his son into his lap. "Nice fez" John said approvingly. Rory nodded.

"It complements the bow tie." He supplied. John plucked at the bow tie and grinned.

"So it does"

John stood up and went to the kitchen. "Any developments?" He asked his husband as he submerged his hands in the soapy water and began to vigorously scrub at the plates. Sherlock sighed and shook his head, dropping the pipette on the table with a chink and burying his face in his hands. John frowned; he couldn't stand to see Sherlock like this. He rounded the table and took his husband's face in his hands.

Sherlock smiled, the slightly wrinkled skin around his eyes creasing adorably. John kissed him lightly, his fingers rubbing soothing circles on Sherlock's temples. Sherlock hummed in appreciation, resting his hand over John's and holding them down between them. "Thank you" Sherlock said. John reached up and ruffled Sherlock's curly hair, now streaked with a sexy grey. John had already begun to go grey before he even met Sherlock; he was pretty much all the way there now, only a feint trace of his sandy hair colour remained beneath the silver. He wore it proudly, and made no attempt to hide the wrinkles which lined his face. Sherlock managed to look sophisticated a wise with his advancing years, and John found it strangely irresistible and vaguely annoying.

"Rory get off the windowsill!" Sherlock bellowed. Their son grudgingly stepped back inside and scuffed his toes on the carpet in annoyance. "What is it with our children and their obsession with putting themselves in danger?" Sherlock muttered almost to himself. John shrugged.

"They must get it from somewhere." He pointed out, examining the fresh cut on Sherlock's forehead and punching him jokingly on the shoulder when he pulled away.

"I'm fine, stop fussing John" He hissed in annoyance.

"Sherlock you jumped off a ten story building! Granted you landed in a skip but the fact still remains." His husband bristled and slapped his hands away. Sherlock stood up and groaned, "See, I told you so, you've gone and done your back in!" Sherlock narrowed his eyes and hobbled away with a hand clapped to the base of his spine where the pain emanated.

"Getting old, dad?" Irene piped up with a chuckle.

"Hush. If you speak too loud someone might actually pay attention." Sherlock quipped; Irene stuck her tongue out at him.

"We'll have to buy you a stick next Sherlock!" John called as Sherlock settled himself into his chair with a muffed grunt.

"Don't you bloody dare!" He said, relaxing against the cushions. Rory scuttled into his lap hopefully. "Oh Rory, they're all so mean to me!" He confided in his son grudgingly. Rory dangled his legs over his father's knees and looked up at Sherlock with his big green eyes.

"Daddy tell me about one of your cases" Rory said, pulling Sherlock's arms around him like a blanket. Sherlock smiled at the wealth of memories. Irene perked up and came over to sit on the arm of her father's chair in expectation. John joined them in his chair; curious as to which one Sherlock would choose.

"John love, could you pass me the case file, second from the right on the middle shelf?" He asked, gesturing with a lazy finger towards the bookshelf. John sighed and got up to pull out the folder and place it in his husband's hands.

"Now let me tell you about the Musgrave Ritual my son, and the Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time..."


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N: Back to normal, Irene and Rory where we left off a couple of chapters ago. **

**Dedicated to the lovely MrsCumberbatch, to make her feel better! **

Irene sneezed loudly, startling her brother out of his slumber. She paused, and then sneezed again... and again...and again. John patted her on the back and handed her a tissue from his pocket. She sniffed miserably, her eyes watering. "Dear me, we're going to have to get you to bed!" John said, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and kissing her head. Rory kicked out in annoyance at being ignored. "Hey hey hey little one don't have a tizzy" John cooed, rocking his son as they climbed the stairs.

When they entered the flat they were startled by a mournful wail. Sherlock lay on the carpet, folded in on himself in agony. He rolled around a bit and shuddered as another bout of pain stabbed at his abdomen. John dropped the shopping, placing Rory in his sister's arms, and rushed to his husband's side, lifting him into his lap in an attempt to calm him. Blood dripped steadily from Sherlock's nose onto his chest and little beads of perspiration glistened on his forehead, he groaned pitifully. John held him tightly and kissed him over and over, murmuring soothing words in his ear. "Sherlock, Sherlock what's wrong?" He said. Sherlock didn't reply, but pulled John flat against his chest and clawed at his shoulder blades as the pain intensified. Irene laid the little boy down in his cot and ran to kneel by her father's side. She touched his hand and Sherlock squeezed it feebly. Irene had an epiphany, she released her hand and began to carefully count the months off on her fingers.

Nine.

Nine months since the psychological pregnancy pains began. Irene dropped to the floor and quickly slid her hand under her father's shirt and pressed her palm flat against his slightly swollen abdomen, which was twitching and flinching irregularly. Sherlock gasped as a spasm of red hot fire shot from her touch, his body convulsed involuntarily then went limp as the pain disappeared. His eyes fluttered shut and he breathed steadily again. John gaped at her and she took one hand off of Sherlock's burning skin to take John's, replacing her hand with his own. "Psychological pregnancy. Nine months. Labour. Contractions. Birth." She said plaintively.

John's eyes softened with love "Oh Sherlock" He murmured, running his fingers through the detective's hair. Sherlock nudged his head against John's palm and whimpered again, but more quietly now. "You need to get to bed love" John whispered to him. Sherlock nodded weakly. Irene gave another explosive sneeze and she shivered. "And so do you." John said firmly.

He took her hand and led the pair upstairs to the room shared by Sherlock and himself. He supported much of his husband's weight, throwing an arm around his waist to hold him up. Sherlock laid his head on John's shoulder and huffed a breath as he clutched at his stomach in agony, doubling over again. Irene dipped under her fathers and took Sherlock's other arm, dragging them both to the door and across the room to the bed. Sherlock collapsed onto the mattress and groaned again.

Irene staggered a little and she said through a bunged up nose "Daddy my froat hurds" John crossed the room and took her in his arms,

"Oh my baby, come on then, back to your room" John said, then had a second thought. He turned away from her and motioned to his back with his arms outstretched "Jump on!" He said, and Irene did so, settling herself between her father's wide shoulders as he carried her downstairs. John put Rory down for a nap, and settled his daughter in bed with her curtains drawn, and with a mug of warm honey and lemon to ease the pain of her sore throat. She beamed up at him and he kissed her, switching off the light so that she could sleep peacefully. Then he climbed the stairs back to his room and came across a grumbling Sherlock curled up in their bed.

John lay down next to his husband and curled his arms around Sherlock, his chest pressed against Sherlock's back reassuringly. He pulled the duvet up over them, still fully clothed. He then proceeded to slide his warm hands around Sherlock's back and front, rubbing circles over his skin and pressing lightly against the tender part of his abdomen. Sherlock jolted at the sensation, not entirely unpleasant. John pushed his leg between Sherlock's and entwined their limbs to let the warmth of his body radiate through to the other man. Sherlock had stopped complaining and was strangely silent as John continued to knead and stroke his body where the pain was concentrated. John's fingertips skimmed the waistband of Sherlock's boxers and he kissed the back of his husband's neck. "Better?" He whispered. Sherlock nodded vigorously. "I love you" He said hoarsely

"I know" John paused, letting his idle hands drift upwards, tracing the planes of Sherlock's hard chest with relish.

"Uh." Sherlock ejaculated softly, revelling in the caress of John's hands on his body.

"Can I get you anything? Are you in pain?" John said with concern.

"No."

John swallowed "Is there anything you want me to...do?" He stuttered. Sherlock hummed in response. Suddenly John found himself on his back, Sherlock had turned around in his arms and flipped him over, and was now leaning over John, bare chest gleaming pale in the dim light and eyes dark with desire. John licked his lips. Sherlock leaned in, his breath hot on John's neck.

"Yes." Sherlock growled, "Don't stop."


	19. Chapter 19

John lifted his head carefully and rubbed his nose against Sherlock's chest in greeting, smiling to himself as the detective responded by pressing their bodies closer together. Sherlock ran his slender fingers over John's bare skin, along his side, and then trailed upwards, following the curve of his husband's spine. John groaned blissfully, inching his way up Sherlock's naked body so that he could rest his chin in the hollow of the other man's neck. John marvelled at the play of early morning sunlight over his husband's pale frame; the hardened muscle and taught skin pulled over the sharp planes and angles of his bones, and his eyelids fluttered sleepily, dark lashes framed the sparkling grey irises.

Sherlock gazed lovingly down at John, curled naked and tanned and beautiful against his side. Sherlock kissed him. And because he loved doing so, he did it again. John grinned that brilliant grin Sherlock adored, and leant up to playfully nip the delicate skin on of Sherlock's neck. The detective's skin prickled with goose bumps. "So," John murmured "what do you want to do today?" Sherlock didn't respond at first, just nuzzled his hair affectionately.

"Hmmm, let's just stay here John" Sherlock drawled lazily, trailing kisses up his neck.

"S-sherlock!" John protested feebly, slapping at the other man's hands which were roaming about his torso again. Sherlock huffed in annoyance.

"Fine, what did you have in mind?" He said, poking John in the side to tickle him.

"Gnah!" John shrieked. He considered the fact that at this moment he could probably ask his love-drunk husband to do anything for him. "How about we take the children and go to the park?" He said hesitantly. Sherlock was silent. John frowned, perhaps not.

"Sure." Sherlock said at last. John smiled triumphantly and tipped Sherlock's chin so their lips met in a deep and tender kiss. Sherlock was too drowsy and sedated by the affections of a certain doctor to know yet quite what he had let himself in for.

They lay there wrapped around each other a little while longer, until John grew hot and restless. "OK" he said at last "I'm getting up"

"NO!" Sherlock cried, latching onto John's arm as the doctor attempted to leave the bed. John crouched awkwardly, completely exposed in a compromising position with his arm twisted around his back.

"Sherlock get off!" The detective growled and gave a sharp tug on the other man's arm, causing him to collapse on top of him. John wriggled atop his husband, causing friction between them. Sherlock's breath hitched as he shifted under John so that their hips slotted together.

"Stay a while" Sherlock purred, biting his neck firmly. John gasped and pushed into Sherlock's body with a grunt.

"I think I can allow five more minutes..." John said breathily, running his hands through the delightfully unruly mop of dark curls before him. Sherlock raised a suggestive eyebrow.

"Five minutes, is that a challenge, Doctor?" He said, pulling John up closer towards his mouth with a seductive growl. John nodded helplessly, staring into those liquid quicksilver eyes. "Well then," Sherlock said with a chuckle, "challenge accepted."

John gasped.

Irene giggled in high spirits as her father galloped and ran around the small flat, clearing the debris littering the carpet in large loping strides. She rode gracefully on his shoulders and ducked to avoid the low ceiling of the kitchen. Sherlock trotted up to John and breathed hot air onto the back of his husband's neck in the manner of a horse. John shooed the both of them away with a swipe to Sherlock's right buttock. The couple shied away and Sherlock threw his head back and tipped his daughter, holding tightly onto her legs. Irene squealed and flung her arms over her father's eyes in an attempt to grab onto him. Sherlock deftly avoided knocking her out on the top of the doorframe and swung round to drop her heavily onto the sofa. She laughed musically and relaxed against the cushions, breathing heavily and grinning. Sherlock placed his hands on his hips and grinned back, his eyes creasing and his lips pulled thin across his teeth. John noticed for the first time the slight wrinkles which remained around the intelligent eyes after his husband's face had relaxed again, and was struck by the realisation that he really was going to grow old with this mad, genius, impossible man. John smiled to himself happily, and spread an extra layer of jam in his sandwich.

The two men walked along the road to the park, laughing with their children, their hands joined by the little girl they continued to swing by her thin little arms between them. John cradled their son in his other arm, and Sherlock carried the picnic basket on his. Sherlock had been shocked that John even owned a picnic basket, but there you go, his husband was full of surprises. They arrived at the park and John spread a check blanket over the slightly damp grass. They sat down and Sherlock laid out the food, tossing various tin foil wrapped packages at the members of his family. They lounged across the blanket in the sun and chewed lazily at their sandwiches. John glanced over and admired the man to his right with a shameless cock of his eyebrow. Sherlock was dressed in a tight white shirt, the slight muscle of his chest visible beneath the painfully thin fabric and the sleeves rolled up. He was wearing dark jeans which hugged his slender legs and threw the not unremarkable bulge of his crotch into sharp relief. John swallowed and tore his eyes away from that general area lest he gave himself away. Sherlock lay on his side resting on his elbow. His mouth was full of food, and John grinned in a self satisfied manner at this small triumph.

It was a lovely day; the sunlight shone through the trees and dappled the faces of the people beneath the old and tired limbs. Irene sighed, her belly full, and let herself fall backwards at Sherlock's feet. The detective reached down and ruffled her hair, mussing the waves up and causing her to squawk and bat his hands away. She sat up and frowned at him, disgruntled. Irene smoothed her hair down and stood, shaking it out dramatically, like a model. John watched her, she was beautiful, and he saw that she would continue to grow more incredible every day for the rest of her life. Irene walked a few paces and crouched down next to her brother, grinning as the little boy started to laugh as she tickled his chubby belly. "OK." Irene said decisively, "I'm going to climb that tree." The couple watched as their little girl set off in the general direction of a large tree with low hanging limbs.

"Be careful!" Sherlock called protectively after her. She didn't turn around but they could both feel the gravity of the eye roll directed at them. John's hand inched across the rug and found his husband's cold hand. He twisted their fingers into a complicated knot and could see from the corner of his eye that Sherlock's mouth had twitched into a smile. When he looked up next John could see that a lone figure had joined his daughter. It was a boy, as far as he could tell from this distance. His daughter generally didn't converse with other children, much less boys. He kept his gaze trained on the pair curiously, as Irene extended an arm and the other boy shook her hand with gusto.

Irene wandered slowly towards the tree she had set her sights on; it towered over the surrounding green area like a great structural tower, the fronds of which obscured the brilliance of the sun. As she walked she counted the branches she was confident she could climb, and decided to climb three branches higher. There was nothing Irene Adler liked more than setting herself a challenge. She made a quick scan of her surroundings, and noted a long shadow progressing towards her. She kept her head down and continued, unwavering in her pace. The shadow had stopped advancing and stood still now at her feet. Irene sighed inwardly and slowed a little to allow her to look up and catch a glance of her pursuer. "Hi" Said a clear male voice. Irene twitched; the voice was alarmingly invasive and irritatingly sincere. She raised her head grudgingly. A young boy stood opposite her, his hair was a striking auburn and his smile was soft and lopsided as he fixed her with a bashful grin. Irene turned her body to face him and frowned at the boy angrily. "What do you want?" She said a little too harshly. The only experience Irene had of children her age was not pleasant. They only ever spoke to her to mock her and even if that wasn't the case, which was rare, she found that they soon turned out to be too different from her, and made it impossible to establish a friendship of any kind. They boy was looking at her from under long blonde lashes. He chuckled to himself. "You looked lonely." Irene bristled,

"And what possessed you to think that I required company may I ask?" She said haughtily, stretching to the extent of her vocabulary in an effort to seem superior. The boy just smiled that irritating smile again; he was beginning to grate on her nerves. He shrugged noncommittally.

"Suppose I wasn't asking for your permission?" Irene had no reply. The boy nodded to her. "I'm going to climb that tree; you can come if you want." He said to her. Yet again Irene felt herself beginning to harbour an intense dislike towards this person who had so arrogantly shoved his way into her life. If this boy was trying to make friends with her he was going about it in a very awkward manner. He turned on his heel and strolled away from her. "You are an incredibly frustrating individual." Irene called after him angrily.

"Beg your pardon," Came the reply, followed by a clipped address of "milady"

"Hey!" Irene stalked up to him and poked him in the shoulder to get his attention. The boy spun around but continued to walk backwards as he observed her. "Let's get one thing straight," The boy raised an eyebrow, "I. Am. No. Lady." She bit out, kicking his retreating foot behind the one he had planted on the ground, tripping him effectually. The boy fell heavily on his rump and grunted, but he didn't seem the slightest bit annoyed by her action. Neither said a word for a moment, glaring at each other with mutual distaste. Something struck Irene suddenly. The boy was still here. He hadn't run away from her. He wasn't pushing her down or bullying her. Actually, if she was to be truthful to herself, Irene would go as far as to say that he was being...pleasant to her. In fact, she was the one who had been horrid to him. She felt very distinctly ashamed of her actions.

Irene stuck out a hand to him. "Irene Adler" She said shortly. The boy's face brightened and he grinned at her crookedly again. Not a bad grin, she relented, she supposed she could get used to it with time. He took her hand in his and shook it firmly. Good, she liked that. "Benedict" He said "Benedict James"

"Well Benedict James." Irene said, effortlessly pulling up the taller boy so that he stood a few inches above her. "Shall we climb that tree?" She asked, Benedict hooked her arm around his,

"Yes Miss Adler, I think we'd better" Irene smiled, and for the first time in her life she knew she had made a friend.

John Watson watched as their son Rory crawled around the check rug the three of them sat one. He gurgled happily to himself and rolled over onto his bottom, his green eyes flicking from one man to the other. Sherlock smiled and reached out to him, he was about to move forwards so that he could pick up the little boy when Rory began to rock gently on his haunches. Sherlock froze, he knew the signs when a child was about to walk for the first time. John looked at him questioningly, Sherlock stilled his movements with a loving hand and they locked eyes on their son. Rory looked confused as he rolled about a bit, his little stubby feet valiantly scrabbling for purchase beneath his chubby form. The couple held their breath, the world ground to a halt as Rory rocked back, and fourth, and back, and finally put a little hand on the picnic basket for leverage. With a determined heave Rory Watson-Holmes rose onto his wobbly little legs and swayed a bit, lifted his right leg, and planted it before him on the rug. The second leg followed, and he took his first tentative steps towards his parents. Sherlock was watching in awe as the little boy tottered into their arms. John helped him the last few steps and as Rory reached them they gathered him in their arms. Sherlock kissed him over and over again, their son giggled and squirmed. "Oh Rory you're so clever!" John cooed, stroking a hand over the boy's hair. Sherlock leant in close and brushed his lips across John's jaw. "Mr Holmes, is that a tear I see in your eye?" John teased. Sherlock frowned and rubbed the heel of his palm in his eye socket hastily.

"No." He said. John merely smiled. "Well," Sherlock began, staring into his son's eyes. "I just suddenly had the strongest premonition of the future," John clasped their hands together encouragingly "and of our children growing up and you by my side..." John watched a silent tear slip from his husband's eye and roll slowly over the hollow cheeks, trailing a salty path over the pale skin. John hugged their child closer and kissed away the tear. "John?"

"Yes Sherlock?"

"We're going to grow old together, aren't we?" John considered this for a while.

"Yes." He said at last.

"John?" His husband looked at him with a smile threatening to tear the corners of his mouth. "Good." They turned their attention to the baby in their arms with their whole future stretching before them, a long undulating road of mistakes and happiness and moments like this to take their breath away.

"I'll be right back" John said to him as he left to buy the drinks from the kiosk. Sherlock beamed up at him and bounced the excitable toddler on his knee, grinning at the happy little giggles he elicited from his son. A little old lady came over and took a seat on the opposite end of the bench, arranging her skirts around her neatly. Sherlock paid her little attention, concentrating on tickling the little boy in his arms, pressing a soft kiss to his temple with full bowed lips.

The woman shifted restlessly, Sherlock glanced languidly in her direction and acknowledged her with a curt nod. She smiled demurely and leaned forwards a fraction in a manner which suggested that she was about to commence conversation. Sherlock sighed lightly and gave her a tight-lipped smile in return. "Oh, what an adorable baby!" She exclaimed, 'boring, predictable,' Sherlock thought, wondering why nobody could ever think of anything else to say to his son. He was certain that Rory was as sick of it as he was. He nodded politely,

"Thank you." He returned flatly.

"You and your wife must be very proud!" the lady continued. Sherlock blinked angrily,

"I don't have a wife" He bit out harshly.

"Oh." The woman paused, seeming to be at a loss. "Well not to worry dear, plenty more fish in the sea!" Sherlock bristled with anger, holding his son tightly in his arms.

"That's not what I mea-" he began, but he was relieved to see that John was on his way over to them. His husband set their drinks down on the bench beside Sherlock, smiling hesitantly at the woman seated beside the taller man. Sherlock grinned up at him happily and tugged John down harshly, and with his hand fisted in his husband's jumper, proceeded to kiss him fervently, joining their lips with deep and lingering passion.

They parted, and Sherlock almost laughed at the expression on the woman's face. She gawped at them like a fish, her mouth opening and shutting noiselessly in astonishment. John was blushing, and raised a hand to run his fingers through his hair, feeling a bit hot and flustered. Sherlock doffed his imaginary hat to the old woman, "Have a nice day!" He called, lacing his fingers with John's as they walked away down the path.

John was grinning again. "What?" Sherlock asked in puzzlement. His husband chuckled a bit,

"Nothing, it's just, did you see the look on her face?" John paused to compose himself, "It was like she'd never even heard of gay people before!" Sherlock shrugged,

"I like to think we challenge people's perception of the conventional family" John smiled.

"That's true, the last thing our family could be called is conventional" Sherlock squeezed his hand,

"And I wouldn't have it any other way."


	20. Chapter 20

"Sherlock!" John called desperately, "Sherlock?" This wasn't like him at all. John bounded up the stairs to their room and stopped when confronted with the gaping empty space. He groaned inwardly and froze on the spot, listening intently for any sounds of movement in the house. Their children were downstairs eating their lunch, Irene was looking after her brother and John had been about to join them when he noticed the painfully obvious absence of his husband from the table. It wasn't like Sherlock to miss a meal. He still hardly ate, but nowadays Sherlock would come and sit with the rest of his family while they did, and just enjoy their company. Today was different.

John could feel that there was something very wrong, an ache in his chest where the other half of his heart was hurting. Sherlock had been with them just an hour ago when they went to Tesco's, but in the bustle of getting the children fed John had neglected to keep an eye on his third, taller and slightly more immature child. Sherlock had been missing for ages. He leant his back against the wall and sighed. Then he heard the muffled squeak of a back sliding down the tiles on the other side of the wall. He jumped and spun towards the door to the bathroom. John approached and carefully turned the handle.

Sherlock sat curled in the bath tub. His back was against the tiled wall and his head was laid upon his knees, which were drawn up against his chest. His arms were folded loosely over his hair and his hands dangled over the side of the tub. "Sherlock?" John repeated, moving quickly to his side and placing worried hands on the other man's arms. His husband raised his head and looked mournfully at him. "What's wrong, what's happened?" John asked, swinging a leg over the side of the bath and lowering his rear gently down next to Sherlock's. The detective turned his head away, rubbing at his face angrily.

"Fifty-seven" Sherlock murmured absently.

"I'm sorry?"

"Fifty-seven, John. Fifty-seven grey hairs." The older man stared at him blankly for a moment.

"On your head?" He said at last, trying not to make it obvious as he scrutinised the curly mass of dark hair before him.

"Obviously."

"Right... And?"

"Don't you see what this means?" Sherlock said loudly, John jumped and Sherlock looked apologetic. He lowered his voice to a whisper "It means I'm getting old." He said quietly. John reached out and took one of the soft, long-fingered hands in his own, caressing it and placing gentle kisses on the white knuckles.

"Show me" John said between kisses. He watched as Sherlock raised his other hand to the back of his head and lifted the shaggy mop of hair that overhung the back of his neck. Beneath the inky black curls sprung a patch of silver hair, weaving its way defiantly into the darkness and penetrating the top most layers with streaks of light. John could honestly say he had never seen them before, so well hidden where they. But evidently they meant a great deal to his husband, and so John stayed silent and Sherlock's hand moved grudgingly to his hairline, sweeping aside the forelock of curls and gesturing to the roots of his hair where they faded into a light grey. Sherlock hung his head in shame and squeezed his eyes shut. John craned his neck up and kissed him tenderly on his cheek, then moved his lips up to touch his brow, then his other hand inched round to the nape of Sherlock's neck, stroking the fine patch of grey and eliciting a soft moan from the other man. "I think it's sexy" John purred in his ear, smiling as Sherlock shifted and wound his arms around his tightly. John put his arms around Sherlock too, and they lay like that in the bath for a while before John spoke again.

"What's so bad about going grey anyway, I'm almost grey myself and that doesn't seem to bother you." He said with slight confusion. He felt Sherlock shrug where his hands gripped the other man's shoulders in the embrace.

"It suits you, I like it. You've always been grey, I can't imagine you otherwise." Sherlock said, cuddling into him a little more, his long lean body curved to fit into his husband's arms. John slowly began to stroke the younger man's hair where his head was pillowed against his chest. He felt Sherlock shiver with pleasure, the motion of John's fingers over his scalp made him go jelly legged and gooey.

"It seems odd to me, that you have just started to go grey and I've been like this for years. I'm not that much older than you..." John trailed off and his body stiffened.

"What?" Sherlock demanded; frowning at him as the stroking stopped abruptly.

"I've just realized something that's all" John said with a grin.

"What?" Sherlock repeated more impatiently.

"I have a toy boy!" John blurted, and collapsed in a fit of giggles with Sherlock looking very bewildered. The fog lifted, and Sherlock began to grin impishly.

"Yes, yes you have." He replied, laughing as John wiped his eyes

"That's brilliant!" John gasped as he leaned forwards and passionately kissed his husband breathless, catching Sherlock completely by surprise. They pulled apart with Sherlock blushing furiously.

"OK, that was unexpected." He said, and took John's hand again.

"Sorry, I have no idea why that made me so giddy. I didn't mean to attack you like that." Sherlock smiled warmly and covered their joined hands with his other one.

"It's fine."

"I guess what I'm trying to say is that if anyone should be feeling old here it's me" John said thoughtfully. "But I don't feel old, and you certainly shouldn't" Sherlock nodded. "Anyway, grey hair is a sign of maturity, and you are mature now, you have responsibilities. You're married and you have two wonderful children. You are a grownup, even if you don't always act like one, and whether you like it or not you are going to get older Sherlock, and one day you will die. I'm sorry but that's just the way it is." John said matter-of-factly.

Sherlock raised his head and looked at him in shock and remorse. "But do you want to know the good part?" Sherlock said nothing, just squeezed his hand and blinked at him lovingly. "The good part is that we get to do it together. There isn't a day when I won't be here for you, and I promise we will never have to be apart until that final day comes."

"You won't leave me?" Sherlock reaffirmed just to make sure he heard it right.

"Never" John replied

"Promise you won't die before me John, I couldn't bare it here without you." John sighed at the impossibility of the plea.

"I promise." He said, and they kissed again tenderly, like a vow shared between them.

"Now," John said when they had let the moment sink in for a while "tell me, Mr Holmes, just how you came to be sitting in the bathtub of this fine establishment."

Sherlock shrugged again noncommittally "It seemed the most logical place to be."

John considered this briefly "Only in your mind love" he said.

Just then the door swung gently open and Irene stood in the hall holding a squirming boy in her arms. "OK." Was her initial response when she saw her two fathers sitting in the empty bath together fully clothed. Then she strode across the room and plonked her brother down on the rug as he began to kick her. She perched on the toilet seat and swung her legs while staring intently at the two men with her eyes narrowed in speculation.

"What's the matter, dear? Have you never seen two full grown men sitting in the bath having a cuddle before?" John said with a grin.

"No...Can I join in?" She asked after some thought.

"Sure, climb aboard!" He replied, beckoning her into the tub. Irene did so and settled herself beside her fathers.

"Do you do this often?" She asked, ducking under her father's arm and joining Sherlock in leaning against John's chest.

"Nope." John said honestly.

"This is strange." She said

"We are very strange people who do very strange things love, you'll get used to it." He replied, stroking both their hair again. John ran his fingers through Irene's long dark hair, sweeping them clean from root to tip.

"Don't worry dad, I'm strange too." Sherlock grinned.

"Rory, it seems, is the only exception" He mused.

"I wouldn't say that, he's currently chewing the cap on a bottle of bleach." Irene said softly.

"Oh God" John said, leaping up and tearing the bottle out of the little boy's hands. It's empty..." He said in puzzlement.

"Yeah, I removed the beach a week ago; I thought he might do something like that." Sherlock confided.

"Oh great, so you can remember to remove the bleach from the bathroom but you can't remember to get that dead rat out of the toaster." John muttered angrily. "I try." Sherlock pouted. John sighed.

"That's all I ask." He said with a smile.


	21. Chapter 21

Sherlock skipped down the steps happily, the tails of his dressing gown trailing behind him as he swung into the living room of 221B Baker Street. "Oh, what a beautiful morning!" He exclaimed to the occupants of said room. "The sun is shining, the birds are singing, I have a wonderful daughter and a handsome son and a gorgeous husband!" He circled around John and kissed him firmly on the lips "Hello dear" He whispered as he sailed by. "What an excellent time to be alive!" He finished, plonking himself into his chair and snapping open the paper. The room settled again, and Sherlock seemed to have lapsed into silence for the time being. John glanced at his daughter, who shrugged and padded to the microwave. She opened the door and stared inside blankly for a while, as though in deep contemplation. Irene blinked to clear the image ingrained onto her eyelids, and flicked the little door shut again absently, continuing to stare vacantly at the cross hatched glass. A moment passed.

"There's a toe in the microwave." She muttered to herself, and wandered off to brave the contents of the grill.

John shook his head and frowned before turning to face his husband. "Why are you in such a good mood today then?" He hazarded a peek at the washing up bowl before plunging his hands into the greasy water with resignation. Sherlock didn't respond for a moment, pretending to study an article in the paper dutifully. "Sherlock?" John tried again.

"Hmm, what, me? No reason dear." He replied with a smirk.

"Sherlock..."

The younger man shrugged absently. "Mummy is hosting a little get together this weekend; I thought we could all go." He said eventually.

"Fine, sounds great." John said, drying his hands on a tea towel. "Why are you so excited about it? I mean, your mother is a lovely woman but I thought you didn't like visiting your family..." The detective blushed,

"Well, she hasn't met the children yet and I was sort of looking forward to showing them off..." He said quietly. John grinned.

"So you should be, God, I hadn't even realised that she hadn't met them yet." He said, startled by his own revelation.

"Mummy knows it's been quite busy here lately, and she wouldn't want to rush us. Although I admit that after she met you a few years ago she had given up hope of having any grandchildren." Sherlock said thoughtfully.

"What about Mycroft? He might surprise you, bring home a pretty girl, get married, settle down." Sherlock threw him a look.

"No. My brother is certainly not one to settle down. Plus I'm quite sure he's gay. He hasn't told anyone yet though, he knows he doesn't have to tell me."

"Oh" Was all John could say. A thought struck him, "Sherlock,"

"Hmm?"

"She does know you're a father doesn't she?" Sherlock said nothing, he didn't even move.

"You haven't told your own mother you have children?" John exclaimed in disbelief.

Sherlock looked guiltily down at his feet "The conversation never arose." He pointed out.

"Sherlock, you're married to a man, I'm pretty sure it didn't occur to her that you might be announcing that we were expecting a baby any time soon!" Sherlock sighed dramatically,

"You're right, let's keep it as a surprise though. Anyway, you haven't taken the children to meet your mother."

"My mum lives in Bristol, that's two hours travelling with a young child and a bored consulting detective. Your mum only lives in Oxford!" Sherlock scowled.

"Fine" He bit out, "but your mother has to come and see us soon as well." Sherlock reasoned. John groaned.

"I'll see what I can do."

"Anyway, there is another reason I'm in a good mood this morning" Sherlock purred.

"Oh yeah?"

"Hmm, thank you for last night" He whispered, sauntering over and kissing John's neck tenderly. John blushed and melted under his husband's lips. "It was...fantastic" He added between little touches of his lips against John's skin. The doctor smiled to himself,

"Just keeping the spark alive" He replied, closing his eyes as Sherlock leant into him and wrapped his arms around John's waist.

"Oh I don't think we have any issue with that" Sherlock murmured, letting him fall suddenly backwards and catching him inches from the floor, dipping his husband in one fluid, theatrical movement. John gasped in surprise and frowned at Sherlock, who grinned at him ruefully, and pulled him up for a gentle kiss.


	22. Chapter 22

**For the wonderful MrsCumberbatch, for all her support and encouragement, and being generally amazing! Xx**

Irene growled primitively, tugging at the lacy hem of her dress with disgust. "Daaadd!"

"What?" Sherlock called from the other room where he was carefully adjusting John's slim black tie with gentle fingers. The doctor smiled at him and Sherlock pulled him into a kiss by the tie at his throat. Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut and he leant into his husband longingly. John broke off the kiss and chuckled breathlessly, smoothing the lapel of the detective's suit and running his fingers through Sherlock's hair.

Their daughter stomped angrily into the room and stood with hands on her hips glaring at them. Sherlock grinned. "You look beautiful darling" He said. The girl scowled and raised a sceptical eyebrow.

"Dad it's got _bows_ on it. Frilly. Little. Bows." She hissed, plucking at the wretched things in distaste.

"That dress was a gift from your aunt Harriet, and besides, it's the only respectable thing you have to wear." Her father pointed out. Irene glowered at him.

John sighed and knelt down next to Irene, taking her small slender hands in his. The doctor stroked the dark brown birthmark which ringed her wrist absently. He fingered one of the white frilly bows with interest and stood up, seeming to have come to a decision.

"Wait there" He instructed, scuttling off into the kitchen. Sherlock and Irene exchanged bemused glances. John returned some moments later cradling a sewing kit in his arms. Sherlock giggle-snorted before he could restrain himself.

The doctor ignored his husband and dropped to his knees, brandishing a pair of sharp little thread scissors in his right hand. Irene watched curiously as he snipped away at the gossamer fabric, hacking off the bows and dropping them in a sickly cream pile at his feet. Gentle fingers picked the remaining thread from the dress, frowning at the puckered little marks the bows had left on the fabric near the waistband.

"Sherlock"

"Hmm?" His husband replied, wiping the amused grin form his face as he addressed the other man.

"Pass me your new tie." The detective looked confused, but obediently retrieved the straight sapphire blue silk tie from the back of the chair. John snapped his fingers and the taller man laid it in his palm.

The doctor threaded the tie around his daughter's tiny waist and motioned for her to turn around. She did so, and Sherlock winced as John drove the needle through the expensive material and began neatly stitching it to the dress at the back. John over stitched the end and cut the thread, holding his daughter at arm's length to admire his handiwork.

"I was going to wear that..." The detective mumbled grumpily. John turned to face him.

"Sherlock Holmes, your daughter is having a fashion crisis, when that happens we do all we can to make that better, do I make myself clear?" Sherlock blinked at him and huffed, retaining his icy composure.

"Perfectly."

"Good. Irene, stop twirling and go and finish getting ready." The girl grinned and threw her arms around her father's neck compassionately.

"Thank you daddy" She whispered, smoothing the skirt of her midnight blue chiffon dress, sans girly bows, studying her newly belted middle with pleasure.

"You're welcome." John smiled and scooped up the frothy bows, putting them in his sewing box carefully, in case he should ever need them again. You never know.

Their daughter skipped out of the room to admire herself in her considerably less atrocious outfit for the evening her estranged grandmother was planning.

Sherlock sauntered over to his husband, swinging his hips seductively. John rolled his eyes.

"So, Doctor Watson, handy with a needle are we?" John groaned.

"Don't" He warned

"No no, you misunderstand my intentions entirely. On the contrary, I find it quite...sexy."

"Sherlock, stop touching my arse."

-Two Hours Later, Holmes Estate, Oxford-

The cab pulled up at the wrought iron gates of the grand and elegant house which had belonged to the Holmes family for six generations. Sherlock took a deep breath, and stepped out of the cab gracefully, extending his arm to help out his eight year old daughter. She hopped out, turning around and holding out her thin arms for her brother to be handed to her. John passed the squirming toddler over and Irene settled Rory in her arms. The doctor stepped out next, placing a delicate kiss on his husband's lips before ducking down to over pay the cabbie to compensate for his son's screams of annoyance ten minutes before.

They linked arms and approached the house with caution. A warm honey-coloured glow permeated the darkness and spilled from the high arched windows of the living room. John stole a cautionary glance at Sherlock, who was breathing in shallow little gasps and sweating considerably. The doctor squeezed his hand and pressed himself against his side comfortingly. Sherlock glanced down at him and his face relaxed into an easy smile. Tension he had no idea had been crippling him released from his shoulders and he took a deep breath, smoothing his daughter's hair lovingly and gazing with adoration at his son.

"It's going to be OK, we'll do this as a family" John reassured him. Sherlock nodded, his smile fixed wider but the grip on John's hand tightened.


	23. Chapter 23

"John!" Mycroft smiled warmly 'smarmy git.' John thought privately. On the outside he grinned and shook hands compassionately with his brother in law. Sherlock returned the gracious nod with slight grimace at his older sibling. Both men carefully avoided the awkward hug they had partaken in during Mycroft's last visit with a haughty air, but John knew that in his heart of hearts Sherlock really did care for his brother, and that was enough for now. There was a little gathering just inside the door, and the family slipped past the group of already humorously tipsy adults with ease.

Sherlock shook his coat from his shoulders and spun on his heel, helping his husband off with his jacket, hooking it over one of the pegs on the carved wooden hat stand. He smiled languidly at John, offering his arm to the shorter man, who slipped his hand into the crook of his elbow happily. The two men herded their little brood in the general direction of the drawing room, allowing the children to precede them. Sherlock paused as Irene handed her brother over to John at the doorway, then she shrank back to his side shyly.

The family registered a few uncertain smiles and nods of recognition as they passed through the throbbing crowd. A few faces John recognised from their wedding, like Sherlock's cousin Pauline the nuclear physicist, and Great Uncle Cecil the homophobe. "Sherlock this is not what constitutes a small family get-together!" John hissed conspiratorially. His husband looked guiltily around him at the unfamiliar faces.

"I have a great deal of cousins." He offered.

"Sherlock there are more people here than just your cousins!"

"Second cousins, third cousins, half cousins, great great step aunts, adopted grandchildren, estranged godmothers..."

John frowned at him without trying to look obvious. "Sherlock there's no such thing as a step auntie."

The heat of the bodies packed together in the large house warmed them up considerably, and there was an overwhelming sense of claustrophobia as they walked into the throng of idly chatting people who huddled around the foot of the stairs and extensive hallway. The din of conversation and dull background jazz almost drowned out the sharp peel of laughter Sherlock recognised instantly as belonging to his long suffering mother.

John felt his husband stiffen at his side. Sherlock's already clammy palm became slick with sweat as they advanced on the laughter tinkling from the centre of a large crowd of people. The detective raised his head like a proud stallion, scouting his mother from the group.

Ms Holmes frowned. The elderly gentleman she was talking to about foreign politics faltered in his dull monologue as he noted her disinterest. He coughed lightly but received no response. The glamorous woman was usually a spectacular host, but this behaviour was most out of character. She had no intention of reinstating the conversation, having caught the merest scent of her youngest son's cologne on the biting cold breeze from the open door. She sighed, hoping that this man would go away and leave her in peace soon. Sir Henry Baskerville was a terrible bore. Ms Holmes despised making conversation with him, but he was an old family friend, and he simply would not shut up. The man stared at her expectantly for a moment, then hummed to himself and waddled away. He was also a rather fat man; the circumference of his gut was extortionate. The skin flopped in rolls over his belted middle, and it made Ms Holmes feel rather sickened as she watched his thighs chafe together and his retreating backside sway in a separate tempo of jiggling to his upper body.

"Mother" Sherlock said quietly, his voice cracking a little. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Mother" The woman looked around, her smooth face breaking into an indulgent smile, displaying a row of pearly white teeth. She really was a beautiful woman, John reflected. Her skin was plump and soft with a few creased wrinkles lining the delicate skin around her cherry red lips and her sparkling blue eyes. It was clear where Sherlock had got his looks from. Mrs Holmes had exceptionally shiny dark wavy hair, it swept gracefully around her shoulders as she turned her head, streaked with elegant grey highlights where it brushed against her long neck and tumbled down her back. The good doctor tucked himself behind his husband briefly, shielding the squirming toddler in his arms.

"Sherlock dear, how lovely to see you!" She beamed, folding her son into a hug. Sherlock released John's hand and walked forward, stooping to wrap his arms around his mother affectionately. There was a considerable height difference between the detective and his mother, the tall genes being from his father's side. John watched as they embraced, sensing his daughter approaching him from behind. He took a breath, poking his head around Sherlock's shoulder and smiling without displaying whom he was carrying. "And Doctor Watson, as handsome as always I see" She continued, taking in John's awkward pose.

"Are you quite alright dear? You seem to be a little bit preoccupied there!"

'Shit.' John thought bluntly.

"Have you been saddled with one of the children?" She asked, peering around her son curiously.

"Uh, no not exactly" John stammered, hazarding a nervous look at his husband, who drew back and stood at his side to reveal the little boy the shorter man held in his arms. "Actually, Rinata, Sherlock and I have some rather exciting news" The detective snaked his arm around his husband's waist and pulled him closer, looking behind him to urge the young girl forwards. Irene stepped in front of them and they watched hopefully as various indiscernible emotions flitted across Rinata Holmes' face in quick succession.

John coughed and leant into his husband for support. Sherlock took his daughter's hand.

"Mother, John and I have adopted children. We are parents."

Mrs Holmes made a sound like a dying whale and stared at the eight year old girl and the nine month old baby who had suddenly become her grandchildren.

Sherlock sighed and took a step towards her. "Don't worry," He said when John looked at him with concern. "It's a family trait. Our brains have a tendency to shut down under extreme emotional stress. Remember when I asked you to marry me? I couldn't breathe properly and I kept babbling nonsensically for about three minutes, the waiter thought I was choking on broccoli. She's going to be fine."

The three of them watched in astonishment as Sherlock steered his mother out of the room and down the hall to the vast library. At one point the woman seemed to regain control of her senses and flapped him away, snatching her sons hand and dragging him towards the door with determination. They all caught one last glimpse of the man as he shrugged and waved cheerily at his family before being shoved through the door by a very frustrated and confused Mrs Holmes. The door slammed with a grim sense of finality and John stood with his two children looking slightly bewildered by the whole affair.


	24. Chapter 24

Ms Holmes maintained her composure until the door was closed behind them and they were alone, then she turned to her son and slapped him very hard across the cheek. Sherlock stared at her for a moment in bafflement, touching hand to the tender red mark bruising his face with a shocked open-mouthed expression.

"When exactly were you planning to tell me that I had grandchildren?" She hissed at him.

Sherlock shrugged and she hit him again, glaring at him angrily for a few moments before grabbing him and pulling him into a tight hug.

"Oh Sherlock, you brilliant boy, I can't believe you're a father!"

Sherlock didn't move for a moment. The weight of his mother's words sinking in finally. He nodded woodenly in her arms. "Yes..." He breathed. "I am a father."

Then everything went black.


	25. Chapter 25

"Sherlock?" A pause, a cold hand on his forehead "Sherlock sweetheart, wake up."

Sherlock Holmes blinked and sat upright, his eyes wide. "I'm a father." He murmured. "I'm a father." His mother laughed softly, supporting his head in her lap, stroking her fingers through his hair soothingly.

"Yes. Good you know you actually grasped that concept before telling me."

Her son sat up and rubbed the sore lump on his head. "How long?" Rinata asked, not needing to extend her question.

"A while ago, John and I decided we both wanted a child. It seemed the most logical and comfortable decision to adopt I suppose." His mother nodded.

"Your daughter, Irene, she looks very much like a Holmes." She mused thoughtfully.

Sherlock pressed his lips together. "I know." He answered.

There was a pause. "Sherlock,"

"Yes?"

"You have absolutely no idea how to be a father to these children do you?"

"Haven't the foggiest."

Ms Holmes smiled and kissed his forehead adoringly. Her son smiled at her and huffed a laugh.

"Well you're doing everything right from what I can see." Sherlock looked taken aback at the remark. He sighed, standing up and moving to the wide window, his mother followed. The room was dark, and the cold aqueous moonlight rippled through the glass and cast watery puddles of quicksilver on the worn carpet. The rows upon rows of thick ancient books stood sentinel to their every breath and movement like silent guardians of the knowledge they possessed between their world weary pages.

"It's just that I feel that don't deserve any of this." Sherlock reached out and spread his fingers over the cool glass, watching a creeping fog bloom across the window panel under his heated touch. He bent his head in anguish, concentrating on the throbbing of his pulse through his veins, and the rush of oxygen to his lungs.

"Sometimes I can just sit and watch John for hours when he's with them, so natural and right. It fits. And I feel like I'm an intruder in my own family. I don't feel like I have a right to belong with them, like it's all so perfect and mundane, and it's everything that I ever dreamed I could have with John, without even knowing it's what I've been searching for all my life. I have the perfect family, a home and a place to belong, and children with the man I love, and I can't even enjoy it because it doesn't feel like I deserve them."

His mother remained silent and placid, quietly resigned to her thoughts. She gave him the time he needed to continue, walking forwards to hold her sons hand as she had done when he was little, staring into his beautiful eyes. They were his grandmother's eyes. She had never told him how much they reminded her of her own mothers, how much she wanted to cry every time she saw them crease when he laughed, just as hers had done. How the loss was so great it burned like a fire inside her, a blaze reduced to crackling embers over years of yearning, repressed, but never fully extinguished.

Rinata Holmes had lost her mother to cancer when she was nine. Too young to know how to deal with her irrevocable grief, old enough to remember her as mother as she had been, smart enough to know she would never return to her only daughter to hold her in her arms again and kiss her when she cried.

It was something she would never leave behind, a deep seated pain she was bound to carry until the end of her days. She vowed that her son would never feel that pain, and so he knew nothing of her internal struggle. She couldn't trust her voice, so laden with hurt was it that she feared it may break.

"I-I love them _so _much mother. It actually physically hurts. Right here-" He broke off and prodded the place over his heart angrily. "I want everything for them. I would die for them. I want them to live forever, I want them to have friends like I never had, and I want them to dance and sing and learn Latin, and play the flute and tell jokes and travel and write poetry and camp out under the stars. I want them to grow old. I want them to fall in love." He choked on his own overwhelming emotion, shaking as a desperate little tear spilled down his cheek.

"And you don't think that makes you the most perfect father for these children I could ever imagine?"

Sherlock and Rinata Holmes turned in unison from the window, where John Watson stood at the door to the library with their two children at his heels.

"John" Sherlock breathed.

"Call yourself a genius? You're a bloody fool if that's what you believe."

"I-I don't-"

"Now, Ms Holmes," John addressed his mother-in-law. "I must ask you to kindly stop beating my husband."


	26. Chapter 26

Ms Holmes smiled demurely, turning a little to hold her sons hands in hers. "Sherlock, John is telling the truth, you're so perfect for this, for everything. I know you didn't think you could have a normal life, but this is so right for you. You are a wonderful husband to John, I can see that you are very much in love with him, and your children couldn't have a better father." His mother said, staring into his eyes. "Besides John of course" She said with a smile, squeezing Sherlock's fingers in comfort. "You can do this, I know you can. You just need to have faith in yourself and your instincts. Because you do have paternal instincts Sherlock, and you're acting on them right now." He frowned in confusion.

"Look, how your body is angled towards your husband and your hand is slightly extended towards your children, you eyes keep flicking to them unconsciously when you are listening to me, and if I'm not mistaken, which I am sure is the case, then you have the beginnings of a smile on your lips when I speak about them." Sherlock grinned now, wiping the tear from his cheek with his thumb. Sherlock turned and met John's gaze, almost drowning in the love he saw in his husband's eyes.

His mother caught his attention again with a soft nudge at his arm. "See what I mean?" He nodded, taking her hand in his. "Sherlock, you've always said you were born to do your job, to be a Consulting Detective, but you're wrong. You were born to do this. You were born to be a father." Sherlock's lip quivered, he folded his mother into a tight embrace, the tears flowing freely down his cheeks now.

John looked down at his daughter who watched in fascination, different emotions playing across her face, seeming unsettled on her feelings. Rory stood at her side, albeit still a little wobbly on his legs he stood his full height, which was not very much, seeming to have rather impossibly taken after John in his small genes. He knew it couldn't happen, but John could see that their children were growing to become very much like himself and Sherlock in their looks and their personalities. He was both comforted and disturbed by this. On the one hand, he knew Irene would be brilliant and smart just like her father Sherlock, but John only hoped that she would not inherit the sociopathic streak and general intolerance to normal humans which he could already see developing. And while Rory growing up with his nerve and courage could hardly be a bad thing, John couldn't bear to see his own son becoming the broken shell of a man he had been before finding and falling in love with Sherlock.

Then of course there were the obvious physical similarities between the two of them and their children. Irene, breathtakingly beautiful with her long dark hair and skin as pale as fallen snow, her face so perfect and serene, so fragile looking, John feared it would break if he touched her. And Rory, the very picture of the strong valiant soldier John had once been; thick sandy blonde hair and lightly tanned skin, small button nose and kind gentle eyes. It was a comfort to him that even though he had been unable to conceive a child biologically with the man he loved, their children were still as close to them and as perfect as though John or Sherlock had given birth to them themselves.

"John, may I spend some time alone with my grandchildren?" Ms Holmes asked, pulling John out of his reverie.

He nodded, "Of course," She smiled, walking towards him and touching his arm, and gesture which relayed the unspoken direction to care for her son while she was gone.

The door closed behind them, and John found himself alone with his husband for the first time in a long time.

Sherlock looked at him, his brow creased in thought, the overwhelming thoughts too much for him to bear. John met Sherlock's eyes and was staggered by the weight of raw fragile emotion betrayed in his gaze. His eyes were still wet, tears staining his cheeks.

John sighed with relief. He ran towards his husband, jumping into his arms and

mashing their mouths together in desperation. Sherlock grabbed at John's hair, his long fingers weaving into the familiar sandy locks and tugging at the nape of his neck as they kissed passionately. "I. Love. You." John gasped, punctuating each word with a rough kiss on his husband's lips. They wrapped their arms around each other, holding onto the other person as though they were their lifeline, the only thing that mattered in the world.

John tasted the salty tears on his husband's cheeks, and licked them away with a flick of his tongue. Sherlock closed his eyes, leaning into him. "We'll have no tears here Mr Holmes" John said, taking Sherlock's bottom lip between his teeth. The detective grunted in response.

They pulled apart for breath "This way" Sherlock said gruffly. With a gentle smile at his husband, he took John's hand and led him away between the labyrinth of bookshelves.

John grinned, allowing Sherlock to tug him around the corner and into the more private section of the Holmes library. The moonlight cascaded down the spines of the books and pooled on the floor, their very own quiet twilight place to be alone at last.

Sherlock took John's hand and pulled him towards his chest. Their lips met lightly, softly. A tender reminder of the bond they shared. John pushed Sherlock back carefully against the bookshelves, pressing his body flush against him and stretching on tiptoes to kiss him. Sherlock wound his arms around the doctor's waist, sliding slowly down the shelves to the floor. John followed, laying over his husband's body and settling into his arms with one leg draped over Sherlock's knees and his arms around him possessively, his fingers teasing the corner of Sherlock's shirt from his trousers.

The detective smiled as John tugged the fabric from the waistband and slid his warm hand under his shirt, stroking over Sherlock's chest deliberately. He hugged John closer, finding his lips again with the expressed intention of snogging him senseless.

John had fully opened Sherlock's shirt now, and proceeded to trace light patterns on his pale skin with his forefinger. The detective made a strange hiccupping sound when John brushed over his right nipple, and John chuckled low in his throat, bending down to rest his head against Sherlock's chest comfortably.

Sherlock ran his fingers through John's hair again, realizing that they rarely had time together to simply _be_ anymore. They had to always mind the children, make sure they weren't getting into too much trouble or causing havoc. The only time he and John got to themselves were the few hours of blissful sleep or frenzied sex a night, but to be honest, the effort involved in that particular activity was not worth the sleep deprived zombie-like state the next morning. Their love life lived for moments like this, where they had a quiet spot to be together if only for a while before the world drove them apart again.

Sherlock moved his hands down John's back and nonchalantly cupped his arse, looking in the opposite direction out of the window, and at how the moonlight played on the angles of his husband's face. John grinned "Later." He whispered.

Sherlock let out a little whine of protest "Why?" He purred, sliding his back down to the floor to lie next to his husband, twining their hands together.

"We're in your parent's library, and you want to...you know." Sherlock grinned devilishly. He shrugged and trailed his fingers along John's arm teasingly.

The doctor rolled his eyes and turned quickly, flipping Sherlock onto his back and lying on top of him. They kissed again, John exploring Sherlock's chest with his lips. He gazed at his husband adoringly, placing his hands above his head. "OK."


	27. Chapter 27

Ms Holmes led the children from the library where she could hear the muffled voices of the two men inside. At least, she hoped they were voices. She really could not be doing with those boys wrecking her beautiful library with their antics.

The young girl Irene was very pretty, with large intelligent eyes and thick dark hair. She looked unmistakably familiar in her characteristics, very much like a Holmes. Rinata disliked patronising children, and so she did not wait for them to follow her, simply striding off. The girl frowned at her retreating form, the same penetrating glare which her youngest son possessed. The little boy was less difficult to persuade.

Rory tottered forwards awkwardly, swaying on his new legs. Irene steadied him with a hand to his back, helping him forwards. They reached the stairs; a few people stared at the small precession threading their way through the crowd. Irene hesitated at the foot of the large ornate staircase, and Ms Holmes retraced her steps to stand with them. She offered a reassuring hand; "Come with me Irene, there is something I want to show you" The girl did not budge.

"If I am to be your granddaughter then I need to know more about you Ms Holmes. My father has said very little." She spoke in a very prim manner for her age, but her eloquence did not go unnoticed by the woman who had suddenly taken a startlingly important role in her life.

Rinata Holmes smiled "You speak beautifully" She commented. Irene nodded.

"That's how I was brought up ma'am" She replied politely.

"No need for such titles here my dear, I'm not the queen." The woman said, "Come with me, please? I want to get to know you." Irene nodded, struggling a little to hold the toddler in her arms as she ascended the stairs.

"Let me" Ms Holmes offered. Irene shrank back, clutching the little form to her chest possessively. The woman raised an eyebrow; Irene released her brother into her arms.

"He's a spirited chap isn't he?" Irene laughed shortly at her new grandmother attempting to handle the child.

"I suppose"

They climbed the stairs to the landing, Ms Holmes having settle Rory into her arms comfortably. Irene followed her to the end of the narrow hall where the first door on the right was ajar. Her grandmother entered and flicked the light switch, bathing the room in a soft orange glow. It was tastefully decorated, if a little small for the woman who inhabited it. If Irene were to go snooping, she would find that every possession of value to this woman was contained within the four walls of this chamber. Every room but her own stood silent and empty, well, except for one other. As they passed Irene noted the general lack of furniture in the rooms, but the one next to her grandmothers was curiously more cluttered. The contents appeared to be memorabilia of some sort. The objects obviously had sentiment, being meticulously cleaned and kept in their allocated space. If her father were here, he could tell Irene so many things about that room. So many secrets, lies, so much pain and loss. But she was alone with this woman who she had become to accept as her grandmother, and the room remained a mystery.

Sherlock knew. He knew that the room had been his father's study. How he had admired and idolised him. How his father had betrayed them. His selfish act, the pain it had inflicted, how it had torn apart his family. When he was just nine years old his father had committed suicide. It was seemingly unprovoked by any recent events, and came as a shock to all. Most of all, Sherlock's brother Mycroft had suffered. He had rarely left his room for months. At night Sherlock could hear his strangled sobs through the thin walls. It was a mystery, something the police had failed to identify, which had prevented them shedding light on his father's death.

Sherlock had never told anyone his real reason for pursuing a career in detective work. In his mind, as irrational and pathetic as Sherlock knew it was, some part of him believed that by solving these cases for other people, unravelling and exposing the murky thread of truth from the cesspool of modern life, would somehow undo the trauma of the years past and fix his broken family.

One day Sherlock would tell John this. One day, but not yet, not now.

* * *

><p>Ms Holmes walked purposefully into the centre of the room and stood by the ornate white antique vanity. Irene hovered by the doorway in uncertainty. "Don't be shy" her grandmother beckoned, putting down the wriggling child in her arms. Rory sat on the floor, head oscillating form left to right in curiosity as he took in his surroundings. Irene crossed the room and took the offered seat at the vanity, staring into the mirrored glass mottled with tarnishing, analyzing her own reflection with a practiced indifference. "I have something for you." The woman said, reaching into a jewellery box and retrieving a dull silver trinket. "This...belonged to your grandfather, he gave it to me as a gift, and I want you to have it. Your uncle and father already have something of his to pass through the male generations, but I think it's time that the ladies of this family had an heirloom." Irene watched her grandmother's reflection in the glass as she bent over her shoulder and placed the pocket watch in her hands. She clicked it open, admiring the slight little hands and exposed gold gears and mechanisms ticking and whirring behind the scuffed glass. Irene closed it again and rubbed her thumb over the engraved case. The silver glinted with a tarnished sheen in the low lighting, presenting the raised scripture in sharp relief.<p>

'_My dearest, for the love which vanquishes all darkness, know that I will be yours, always and forever'_

Irene read the engraving, her heart swelling at the love poured into the short message. "It's beautiful" She said. Rinata nodded, placing a tentative hand on the girls shoulder

"Yes, will you look after it for me my dear?" She replied. Irene smiled standing and carefully wrapping her thin little arms around her new grandmother.

"Of course"

* * *

><p>Sherlock and John emerged from the library after some time with their arms around each other's waists, their clothes rumpled and ties askew. Sherlock's hair was mussed up and John reached up to run his fingers through it tenderly before letting his fingers trail over the other man's jaw teasingly. Sherlock bent his head and kissed his husband deeply, fingers hooking into the belt loops of the other man's trousers, brushing his skin with gentle strokes. "Mmm thank you love" Sherlock murmured, placing light pecks onto John's lips. John smiled against his husband,<p>

"Any time" He said, leaning into him and pressing their chests together.

Ms Holmes cleared her throat. Sherlock and John jumped apart like they had been electrocuted. "I think it's time you were getting home, don't you? The children are tired" Sherlock blushed and reached behind him to take John's hand.

John bent down and picked up his son, who cuddled into his chest gratefully. As they walked past Rinata, she placed a hand on her sons arm "I hope you know I want to find every book in its place when I go in that library tomorrow, _sweetheart_." She said with a mock threatening tone. Sherlock grinned and ruffled his hair in embarrassment.

"Sorry" he muttered. His mother smiled.

"No harm done. I can turn a blind eye to whatever you and your husband got up to in there. An act of passion is an act of love."

He laughed awkwardly "It is indeed"

"You look after your John, Sherlock, you treat him right."

"I will." He said with sincerity.

"That's all I ask of you"

They reached the door. Irene walked forwards and hugged her grandmother's waist "Goodbye, thank you for the watch" She said. The woman looked surprised and squeezed her tightly.

"My pleasure"

John kissed Ms Holmes' cheek and retreated to the door. Sherlock enveloped his mother into a hug. "Goodbye" He said, "I'm sorry it's been so long."

"So am I," She replied, "Goodbye, Sherlock"

Ms Holmes watched the new family leaving her bustling home, and for the first time in many years she felt fulfilled.

Now, the next task was to get that troublesome boy Mycroft a partner. Oh she did so love a challenge.


	28. Chapter 28

"I can't believe this Sherlock, how could you not tell me?" John said quietly, the most dangerous way he could deliver words was quietly. Sherlock knew that his husband was really, truly hurt when he could not bring himself to raise his voice.

"I didn't want you to be cross with her. I handled it. Everything is under control."

"Everything is not under control! You won't even tell me what happened!"

Sherlock paused, his brow creasing in pain. John noticed a new wrinkle lining his forehead and his heart softened. Seeing his husband growing older beside him was always a tender realization for John, and he couldn't keep his hands off the grey patches that had begun springing up in Sherlock's inky black curls. The doctor stepped forwards and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's bony shoulders, letting his fingers tangle with the peppering of grey hair he knew grew at the base of his husband's long pale neck. "Just tell me what she did love" He whispered, placing a gentle kiss first to the detective's cheek, then to his lips, lingering there for a moment.

"I think that would be better heard from her lips dear." Sherlock replied, nosing John's cheek lovingly.

* * *

><p>"What happened?" John said sternly. Well, as sternly as he could muster when addressing an eight year old girl who was looking for all the world as though she had been beaten within an inch of her life. He had been in the army for god's sake; if he could hold authority over thirty burly young men carrying guns then he could certainly discipline his own stubborn child. "Irene Adler, you tell me this instant, I mean it!" The little girl hung her head dejectedly.<p>

"John..." Sherlock said warily, resting a hand on his husband's arm in warning. John flashed him a look, it was rather frightening, and Sherlock shrank back under his glare, releasing his arm as though John had burned him.

"I didn't mean to do it!" Irene cried, raising her head and fixing her father with a murderous look, her delicate brown eyes glinting maliciously.

"How can you not mean to punch someone in the face thirty six times and tear out a fistful of their hair?" John roared angrily.

"He stared it!" The girl screamed in her fury.

John sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose distractedly. "That's not the point." He said. Sherlock put his hands on his hips and tried his best to look condescending.

"I don't see why not John, the boy clearly had it coming to him. Quite frankly dear I believe we should release the wrath of our daughter more frequently, it seems to produce spectacular results." Sherlock replied, nodding as though he had it all sussed out. John stared at him blankly.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes love?"

"Shut up."

Irene giggled and John rolled his eyes. "Just...tell me what he said." John muttered wearily. Irene bit her lip.

"There was this boy, Andrew, and he was saying stuff, unkind stuff, and stuff about you. He upset me. So I punched him." She shrugged.

"Yes, but what did he say?" John asked, frowning at her.

"He said...he said you were...gay."

"Well that's hardly insulting, it's a fact." John said, smiling as Sherlock took his hand and squeezed it.

"I don't think that's what she meant love." Sherlock pointed out. "I believe this boy used a rather unsavoury word to describe us." He looked at Irene "You can say it, don't worry"

"He said you were...fags." Irene said eventually. "And he said that you shouldn't be allowed to have children, that it was sick."

John sat down heavily on the sofa. Sherlock placed a hand on his shoulder and rubbed the tensed muscles across the back of his neck. John closed his eyes, he suddenly felt very tired. He had never really experienced homophobia first hand, but knowing it now, that it really existed, that there were these people out there, even targeting his children, it was sickening. "You broke that boy's nose. A boy who was two years older than you and you broke his nose." John looked up at his brave daughter.

Irene squared her shoulders defiantly. "He was insulting my family." She said, narrowing her eyes. Sherlock stood and walked past his daughter, clapping her on the shoulder.

"Well done." He said, smiling and flopping down in his chair to pick up his violin with care.

John sighed. "Come here." He said, beckoning to Irene, who edged forwards and sat on her father's knee as instructed. "Let's clean you up" He said, brushing her cheek gently with his thumb. "That boy really made a mess of your pretty face didn't he?" John murmured, bending down to retrieve the first aid kit from under the sofa where he kept it in case of Sherlock-related-emergencies.

As the doctor swabbed at the grazes for his daughter's face and fetched frozen peas to reduce the swelling of Irene's black eye, the little girl kept a brave face, her mouth set in a firm line. John kissed her forehead, and watched, mortified, as a single wet tear rolled down his daughter's cheek and plopped into her lap. Irene brushed away the track it left, but the image remained ingrained into the doctor's mind. "Hey hey hey, it's alright, don't cry" He said, pulling the girl into a tight hug. Sherlock looked up in surprise, crossing the room in a few bounds and enveloping his family in his arms.

Irene buried her face in her father's neck. "I've been expelled from school, I'm a failure!" She sobbed bitterly, clutching at John's back and cuddling into him.

"You're not a failure, not now, not ever." John said, hugging her to his chest. "We'll figure this out I promise" He continued.

"But I shouldn't have let it get to me like that, it's all my fault, I'm weak..." She wailed miserably, Sherlock's heart lurched in his chest and he turned his daughter to face him.

"Don't" He said quietly. "Please don't ever think you are weak simply for standing up for something you believe in, or protecting the people you love. That does not in any circumstances make you weak. You are a strong, independent young woman, and I want you to remember that Irene. Promise me." Sherlock said, tilting her face so that he could look into her eyes. "Promise me you will remember" He repeated. The little girl nodded dutifully.

"I promise" She replied, leaning forward to press a tender kiss to Sherlock's temple.

"Now where is that bastard, I'm going to show him what it is to be gay and proud!" The detective growled, standing swiftly and pacing the room.

"Oh my god" John sighed.


	29. Chapter 29

As soon as Irene had left the room John launched himself at Sherlock and attacked his mouth feverishly. "You bloody brilliant man. What could I have possibly done to deserve you?" John muttered between kisses, moving to the detective's neck and nibbling his ear lobe gently. Sherlock chuckled and pulled the little man up to meet his lips again.

"Actually, I wanted to ask you if-" Sherlock began, but was cut off by John persistently snogging him, and so he gave into temptation. His son was down for a nap and his daughter had locked herself in her room to read or draw, and so the two men made their way upstairs for the first snatch of alone time they had managed to grab in a good few weeks.

* * *

><p>Sherlock sighed happily, running lazy fingers over John's bare chest, and rolled off him slowly. John grinned, turning on his side to stare into the detective's beautiful silver eyes. "I love you" He murmured sleepily, inching forward to kiss Sherlock leisurely, letting his hands wander idly over his husband's pale lithe body.<p>

"I love you too" The detective replied, kissing John's cute button nose with adoration. John rested his palm on Sherlock's chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart returning to its usual rhythm once more. It was reassuring, and he spread his fingers over the other man's skin, feeling the heat he radiated beneath his fingertips and the fine sheen of sweat cooling on his body. The detective's breath was coming short and laboured, and he fought to control it after their recent activity.

"You look perfect like this" John mused, sweeping a stray curl from his husband's brow, admiring the blissful smile gracing the other man's lips and the feint blush creeping from his cheeks.

"And you are always so unbelievably sentimental and dopey after sex." Sherlock replied, arching an eyebrow and flinching as John slapped his arse playfully. The contact resounded with a satisfying smacking sound and John laughed, pressing his lips to the detective's shoulder and closing his eyes as Sherlock drew him closer.

"So what was it you wanted to ask me before?" John said, glancing at Sherlock momentarily before burying his face in his husband's neck again.

"Oh that...It was about Irene, I was wondering if I might home-school her. Of course we could both take part in her education." Sherlock ventured. "I just feel that mainstream education would be too much for her, and we could let her be herself without the interferences of the other pupils." John had maintained a meditative silence throughout Sherlock's proposition. "John? I'm sorry; I thought it would help her...forget I said anything."

"OK."

"I just want her to be ha-what?"

"I said OK."

"Really?"

"Yes. I trust you, Sherlock. Strangely what you said actually does make sense."

"Don't sound so surprised."

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"No acid."

"Damn."

* * *

><p>"We should probably move soon." Sherlock uttered the words neither of them wanted to hear. John groaned and snuggled into the detective's body sleepily, wrapping his leg around Sherlock's and getting as close to his husband as humanly possible without being inside him. It was still a bit too early for that, and let's face it, they weren't getting any younger.<p>

Sherlock rolled his eyes at his husband, who had suddenly become the human equivalent of a limpet. "You don't want Irene to come looking for us up here do you?" John threw off the covers and leapt out of bed, dragging Sherlock by the hand to the adjoining bathroom in his haste to get them cleaned up and downstairs to resume their parenting duties before such an instance occurred. 'Well' thought Sherlock, 'that was certainly effective'.

John bounded over to the shower and turned it on full blast, letting the steam engulf them as they crowded under the spray. John chucked a bottle of shower gel in Sherlock's general direction when he felt soft long fingered hands kneading his arse, followed by gentle lips kissing the delicate skin at the base of his neck. The doctor turned and looped his arms around the consulting detective, letting the water cascade over their bodies, and kissed him passionately. Sherlock took the shower gel and emptied a puddle of the liquid into his palm, proceeding to rub it over his husband's chest and back in a strange sensual massage. John groaned and pressed against him, lust consuming him.

* * *

><p>Sherlock and John wandered downstairs a good twenty minutes later, wearing clean cotton tee shirts and jeans. John had his hand in the detective's back pocket, and Sherlock had looped his arm around the smaller man's waist casually. He could still smell the heady aroma of John's shower gel on his skin and the shampoo lingering in his damp dark blonde, mussed up hair. They entered the living room to find Irene lounged in Sherlock's armchair reading. She looked up when they ambled in, grinning like idiots. "What have you been doing, you're all wet and ...happy" She asked, snapping the book shut and scrutinizing them closely. Sherlock shrugged, leaning down to peck John on the lips as he trotted off to make dinner. He could feel his daughter's gaze, cold and penetrating like his own, tracking him around the room as he sat at the table and opened John's laptop. Sherlock looked up to meet her curious eyes.<p>

"Calorie burning" He replied with a wry smile.


	30. Chapter 30

"Sherlock, how is this conducive to a good education?" John asked as the detective made his second lap of the living room with Irene on his back.

"We were having a break" Sherlock muttered innocently.

"You look like a monkey."

"That too"

"We're studying the family connections within a primate family" Irene piped up, giggling as Sherlock swung her round into his arms and smiled at her, touching their foreheads.

"We are hardly a natural primate family" John pointed out. They were two males who mated on a regular basis and had chosen of their own free will to care for the offspring of others instead of finding a female mate and settling down with them to produce young of their own flesh and blood. Yeah. Very conventional.

Rory sat in the corner clapping his little hands and smiling at his insane father throwing his sister around like a sack of potatoes. John grinned and went to pick him up; resting the toddler on his hip and bouncing him up and down until he laughed in that brilliant way only babies can, somehow always making you smile with them.

"If you say so. This little man needs his dinner; I'll be in the kitchen if you need a silverback gorilla."

"John, I rather think I would be the silverback." Sherlock argued, trying to put Irene down as she clung to his chest possessively and wrapped her thin limbs around his back.

"No no, you are the female."

"John!"

"You started this game we may as well have some fun with it."

"May I point out that you are the one feeding our child, therefore you are the female in this relationship."

"I'm not feeding him like that tough am I? I'm... foraging. I just provide the food." John muttered with his head stuck in the freezer part of the fridge, rifling through the assorted meals he had stored for heating up. "Ooh, no heads, well done love." He congratulated Sherlock as he appeared behind him. The detective smiled smugly.

"I try"

John extracted the shepherd's pie from under the frozen peas and went to heat it up for his youngest child.

"So tell me doctor, what constitutes the requirements to be the female in this relationship?" John hesitated while putting Rory in his highchair. Irene slid deftly down Sherlock's stomach and down his left leg onto the floor in one swift movement and wandered off. Sherlock watched her for a moment then turned his attention back to his husband. Rory grizzled a bit and kicked his little legs as his father tried desperately to put him in his chair. Sherlock rolled his eyes and took his son from John. Rory instantly relaxed and cuddled into Sherlock as the tall man lifted him expertly and plonked him in the seat. "There, silly daddy did it wrong didn't he?" He cooed. John raised an eyebrow and Sherlock looked at him in question.

"That." John said.

* * *

><p>The doctor made his way over to Irene while his other half battled with dinner time for Rory. "What are you reading?" He asked as he sat down on the sofa next to his daughter. Irene slithered up the sofa and let her head rest in his lap.<p>

"Further Study into the Structure of Primate Relationships by Prof. Ian Phillips" She trilled happily, her light brown eyes scanning the words feverishly.

"Wow" muttered John "you actually weren't kidding". He felt a small movement against his thigh as Irene shook her head. The girl sighed and snapped the book shut again, placing it carefully on the floor and lacing her fingers over her stomach. John began to run his fingers soothingly through her long dark hair, dragging his nails over her scalp which he knew she found relaxing. A father knew these things.

"Dad?"

"Yes love"

"Father's about to burn a hole through your favourite jumper"

"Oh shi-" John leapt up. "Sherlock Holmes you put down that Bunsen burner or I swear to god I will bin all of your experiments!"

"Jooohn!"

"No give me that!" Sherlock pouted.

"Spoil sport."

"Baby"

"Don't call me that"

"I wasn't-"

"RORY!" Irene screamed, sprinting across the room and falling against the highchair. She wrenched the sickening blade from her brother's grip. The lurid flash of the cold metal caught the light, displaying the crimson smear of infant blood.

All eyes turned to the child seated at the chair, whose blood was spilling from a deep cut on his forearm. There were no tears, no panic or fear from little Rory, only a morbid fascination with the pulsing red leaking from his body. Sherlock made a choking sound in the back of his throat as he rushed forwards and gathered his son in his arms.

"John" He gasped. His husband could see the fear and pain in his husbands eyes and he felt powerless. "John is he going to be OK?" John nodded woodenly.

"I'll need to bind it. Sherlock, help me." The doctor said monotonously. Sherlock nodded, brushing all his experiments aside and throwing vials and test tubes in the sink with an almighty crash of smashing glass and fizzling liquid. He put the child down, holding his arm up to stem the flow as instructed. John worked fast, gently cleaning the cut and pressing gauze to the wound. Sherlock held it in place as John moved off to get a bandage. Rory looked up at his father in confusion; still no tears sprang to his eyes. Sherlock caressed his cheek and smiled tentatively.

John bound his son's arm with shaking fingers and pinned the bandage. "There" He whispered. Irene hadn't moved for the short five minutes it took for her brother to be cared for. Sherlock turned to look at her, and she smiled at him. They really were great parents.

Irene left the kitchen and returned to her reading.


	31. Chapter 31

Sherlock sat alone under the hot pounding spray of the shower. The scalding water cascaded down his back and soaked his shirt. He raised his head, watching the water run pink off his bloodstained hands indifferently. It was all his fault. He had hurt his son through his carelessness and stupidity, he couldn't bear it.

The detective groaned, letting his head rest back against the tiled wall and the water droplets hit his face like hot bullets. His mother had been wrong, he wasn't born for this! He had just caused his own son pain by his hand, what normal father would do such a thing?

"Sherlock?" John called into the steam filled bathroom. He held his youngest child against his hip and kissed his forehead. "You in there?" He said loudly. "I'm sorry, I had to throw away some of your experiments"

"I don't care" Sherlock replied from the white swirling vapour. John frowned; this wasn't like Sherlock at all. "Is he alright?" The deep voice asked.

"Of course, it was just a little cut, nothing major." John replied, trying to pick out the form of his husband in the steam. There was silence for some time, and then the detective followed up with a simple acknowledgement of 'good'. There was a scuffling, then the tall man emerged from the clouds of heat, his clothes dripping and his hair plastered to his scalp.

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, touching a hand to the detective's clothes. Sherlock ignored him, bring a hand up and hesitantly touching his son's cheek.

"I'm so sorry Rory" He whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to the boy's head. Sherlock tried to retreat, but Rory wouldn't let him. He stuck out a podgy little hand and grasped his father by the wrist demandingly. John laughed, and Sherlock smiled uncertainly.

"He forgives you" John answered for the infant, cocking his head and gazing adoringly at his detective, "although I'm not sure what for". He went to pass their son over, but Sherlock pulled away and looked down at himself where the water still dripped off his body steadily. The taller man backed away and quickly shucked his wet shirt, drying himself off on the towel John passed him, and took the boy in his arms. The detective eyed the bandage on little Rory's hand angrily, stroking a soft thumb over the boy's cheek and smiling down at his son.

"Everything's going to be OK" John said quietly. "It was an accident, nobody's to blame" Sherlock said nothing, then he snapped his head up suddenly and handed the boy back to his other father. "Where are you going?" John called in confusion.

"To put things right" Sherlock called back, dashing into the kitchen and laying into the piles of experiments. There was an almighty crash as he sent glasses and bottles of liquid hurling into the sink, sweeping the papers and scalpels and instruments into bags and flinging them to the other side of the room. John watched in awe as the detective threw away his old life and his work to accommodate their children. "I should have done this sooner!" He yelled manically, tossing a vial of acid aside carelessly and ramming papers and notes into the bin.

"Sherlock stop!" John roared, marching across the room and taking his love by the arm. "Stop this! This isn't you!" He said, staring Sherlock defiantly in his darting silver eyes. "I love you; _we _love you just the way you are! You don't need to change for us Sherlock, please don't throw away your one true passion just because of this." He took the taller man's hand, which was shaking with adrenaline and emotion.

"But you are my passion now John" Sherlock murmured, turning the doctor's hand over in his own and stroking his thumb over John's knuckles. "I'd change anything for you; I'd throw away everything if it made you happy."

"It doesn't have to go, it just has to be organised. We can live around your little eccentricities because that's who you are. Sure, things could be tidier around here, and it is sometimes dangerous for the children, but we just have to clear up the dangerous stuff when you're not using it. That's not a massive change, you can manage it." John replied softly.

Rory looked up at his parents as they kissed, and tugged impatiently at his father's jumper until the broke apart with a smile.

* * *

><p>John woke a little after his husband, who had taken their screaming son downstairs to get him off to sleep without waking his love. In his drowsy state, even the world's only Consulting Detective couldn't tell when the doctor was sleeping. The older man heard the heartfelt tune of the violin echoing around the flat from their living room. He padded down the stairs and poked his head round the doorframe.<p>

Sherlock stood by the window, the cold pale moonlight reflecting off his high cheekbones and the angles of his face. John stood quietly, mesmerized by the man before him. Little Rory sat on the chair, gazing at his father playing the music so beautifully. Sherlock stopped playing, smiling down at the child he called his own. Rory clapped his little hands and giggled happily. John watched as his husband's face broke into a huge grin.

Sherlock bent down and kissed Rory on the cheek. "It's for you Rory" he whispered. "It's all for you."


	32. Chapter 32

**Hello! It's been so long, but I'm finally returning to my little old story. So Irene is sixteen here, and Rory...Rory's about eight I think. I almost regret specifying their ages now. All the following chapters will be taken from here. Thank you for sticking with me through this! I hope you enjoy it! ~K x**

* * *

><p>John sat opposite his sixteen year old daughter, his feet spread out beneath the table, and hers tucked neatly beneath the stool. Irene caught his eye and gave a small smile, her messy bed hair sticking out at odd angles, reminding the doctor very much of his husband in the morning. "Any plans for today?" He asked sleepily, spooning cereal into his mouth and reaching out to sweep a stray lock of dark hair from her brow instinctively.<p>

Irene shook her head, tucking her hair behind her ear and taking a bite of her toast, chewing lazily. John raised an eyebrow "It's the weekend; dad says no schoolwork until Monday. You get today and tomorrow off." he pointed out. Irene sighed dramatically, resting her cheek on her palm and gazing at him with a critical expression.

"What is it dad?" John laughed. As always, she was her father's daughter, able to see right through him.

"Nothing, I'm just curious" He mumbled, embarrassed.

Irene rolled her eyes. "I'm just going out with Benedict."

John chuckled. "Are you now?"

"Not like that."

"I know! I'm just teasing. You're so much like your father, wound up so easily."

Irene shrugged.

They continued their breakfast in silence. Suddenly there was a loud bang from the stairs up to Sherlock and John's shared bedroom, followed by a muffled swear word which Irene giggled at as her father stumbled into the room, clutching his ankle in pain. "Bloody mfrffschbrg..." He muttered bitterly, chucking the blue box onto the sofa angrily. "RORY WATSON-HOLMES, WHAT HAVE I TOLD YOU ABOUT LEAVING YOUR TOYS LYING AROUND?" He bellowed. The small blonde haired boy emerged sheepishly from the bedroom he shared with his big sister. Sherlock frowned at him and pointed at the box nestled in the sofa cushions.

Rory scuttled forwards and swiped up the toy protectively. "But daaad, it's the TARDIS! It's _supposed_ to turn up in unexpected places!" He whined.

Sherlock growled dejectedly and ruffled his son's hair affectionately. "I'd just rather it didn't turn up under my foot when I'm trying to walk down the stairs that's all." He said softly. John smiled.

The doctor stood and walked over to his husband, pressing a delicate kiss to Sherlock's lips. "Morning" Sherlock smiled lop-sidedly.

"Good morning" He replied, hugging John in a tight and uncharacteristic embrace.

Irene coughed suggestively. "I'm going to go take a shower." She sighed, pushing lightly past her parents, who were still locked in an intense hug. It was nice that they loved each other so much, Irene reflected as she wandered back to her en-suite. She hoped that one day she could find that with someone too. The way her dad looked at Sherlock, it was like he would do anything for him, be anyone. There was a kind of hungry passion and devotion burning behind his gaze. When her fathers were in a room together, nothing else mattered to them, everyone faded out until it was just the two of them, locked in each other's gaze. She knew that they loved her and Rory very much, but Sherlock would always hold the foremost place in her father's heart, and vice versa.

She shed her pyjamas and stepped under the spray with a sigh. She was having the nightmares again. Every night the same, the same haunting face leering at her from the darkness, the same jeering laugh, the same sickly brown eyes, and the same high pitched taunting voice with a strong, strangely terrifying Irish brogue, and the same name, over and over and over again...'_Moriarty'. _

Irene shivered involuntarily. It was like he was watching her right now; she could feel his eyes, those horrid, penetrating eyes, glaring at her from somewhere just out of her line of sight. Every time she turned, she had a sick feeling that he was there, lurking in the dark corners of her vision, never quite reachable, but always present in her thoughts, like a spider curled into the recesses of her conscious, ready at any moment to spring out and take her by surprise.

She felt a cold chill come over her, and turned away to face the tiled wall, shielding her naked body from whatever may be watching. She knew it was a sick invention of her mind, but no matter how hard she tried, Irene never felt truly alone.

* * *

><p>"Irene? Rory and I are going out and-" Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks after receiving no answer to his knock and entering his daughter's room. "Sweetheart?" He called into the darkened room. Irene was curled on her side on the bed, the damp towel slipping off her pale shoulder and water dripping steadily from her long dark hair onto the floorboards. Sherlock ran forwards and knelt beside his daughter, covering her with the towel and stroking her pretty face with concern. "Irene, what's wrong love, are you ill?" He asked, smoothing her cheek with his thumb and staring at her with worried eyes.<p>

Irene whimpered as a tear spilled over her cheek and plopped onto the bed sheets. Sherlock flinched, he couldn't bear to see his little girl cry. No matter how old she got, Irene would always be that lonely sad little girl at the orphanage sitting at the window and watching all the other children play. It was too close to home for him to be ignored. Sherlock knew how she had felt then; his whole childhood had been like that, his whole life even, until he met John. The detective scooped his daughter into his arms and sat back down on the bed, cradling her against his chest, not caring that the cold water seeped into his clothing and created a dark stain of moisture. He kissed her head tenderly, enfolding Irene in a tight embrace. She held onto him tightly, her slender hands grasping at his shirt and burying her face in his long pale neck. "Please dad, don't let him hurt me" She whispered. Sherlock cuddled her and shared his body heat between them as Irene began to shake uncontrollably.

"No one's going to hurt you Irene, I'll always protect you." He replied, his deep voice giving comfort to the trembling girl in his arms.

"He's going to find me" She breathed. Sherlock had never seen someone look so scared, not even his dear John cowering at the trick ghost of the Hound all those years, all those cases ago, was anything compared to the all-encompassing terror which gripped his eldest child.

"Who?" He asked in confusion as the girl continued to cry bitterly.

"_Moriarty."_ She choked. The world went cold.

"Dad?" Irene asked uncertainly as Sherlock continued not to speak or move, or even hardly breathe after a few minutes.

"I don't understand. He's dead."

"What? He's real? I thought he was just my imagination...I thought it was a dream..."

"Was"

Irene sniffed. "What?"

"Was. He _was_ real, he's dead. Definitely."

The girl sat up in his arms. Sherlock made no move to restrict her. Irene turned and pulled the towel around her tighter, staring at her father's distant expression. "Tell me" She whispered. He seemed to notice her as if for the first time, his vision clearing, the fog of memories of past adventures clouding his gaze.

"Jim Moriarty, the Napoleon of crime. Criminality ran in his blood, he was the organiser of half that is evil and of nearly all that goes undetected in this great city..."

Irene listened intently, watching her father speak; listening to his voice had always been the most soothing pastime of hers. It was intriguing, how those full lips moved and articulated fluidly and yet relayed so much information and told her stories of cases which seemed so unbelievable yet true.

"It was a long time ago, certainly not the happiest time of my life."

He murmured, standing slowly and letting Irene slide off his lap. He walked to the window and gazed out of the frosted glass. "I had to...leave your father for a while." He began. "Moriarty was closing in; he threatened your father, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade. I couldn't watch everyone I cared about being put in danger, so I...left."

"You left?" Irene asked, her tears dried on her cheeks and the feint flicker of interest sparking in her eyes.

"I...faked my death. Three years. It was torture, being without your father."

"How could you leave him? For three years dad, three years and he thought you were dead!"

"YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND!" Sherlock roared suddenly, tears pricking his eyes. He caught himself, the shock and sadness his outburst had caused reflected in his daughter's eyes. "You don't understand. It killed me."

Irene shook her head in disappointment. "Irene" he breathed, falling at her side desperately. "Believe me; if I could go back, if I could change it, I would undo everything. Nothing hurt me more than leaving John."

Irene smiled, reaching out to hug him. "OK. I understand."

"But you understand that he's gone? Moriarty killed himself. I made certain. He'll never come near us again, I promise." Sherlock said, burying his face in her hair and closing his eyes. He knew it was odd, but he liked to hug Irene. He had never liked physical contact before John, and now he loved to be close to his family, and his daughter always gave the best hugs.

"It's OK dad," She whispered "It's OK, I understand."

* * *

><p>"Hey beautiful" Benedict called from across the road as Irene approached the park. She reached the curb and punched her friend playfully on the arm.<p>

"Hey handsome" She returned with a grin. The boy offered her his arm and they set off towards the lake.

"So what's been going on at the Holmes residence then? It seems like forever since I saw you Miss Adler."

Irene looked away, scuffing her feet as she dragged them along the ground awkwardly. "It's nothing, so how's school?" She asked, anxious to change the subject. Benedict shrugged, his pale blue eyes downcast and his unruly mop of strawberry blonde hair falling in his eyes.

"They still treat me like a freak." He murmured after a while.

Irene refused to pity him, her whole life had been spent feeling like a freak, and it was nothing to be ashamed of. She knew that he wouldn't appreciate the patronization. "Idjits. Come on, let's go sit somewhere."

Benedict smiled faintly, he liked how Irene could make everything seem impossibly petty and insignificant when they were together. He knew that he had an unfortunate habit of dwelling on things too much; he let the bullying get to him. He was seventeen for god sakes! Things like this shouldn't bother him, but those idiots had been targeting him since he was seven years old. Benedict didn't mind being called gay, well, he minded a bit because he wasn't into guys, but more than that he despised the way being homosexual was used as a derogatory term, like it was dirty, something to be ashamed of. Irene probably would have been bullied more for having two dads, he reflected, if she weren't so ballsy and intolerant of all that crap. For as long as he had known her, Irene had always been able to handle herself with grace and confidence, something Benedict admired in her immensely. He liked her strange sense of humour, he liked her arrogance and her attitude, he liked the way she would make fun of him but always apologise after, how she tripped him for being a dick the first time they met, he liked that he was the only one who understood her apart from her family, he liked that she confided in him. He liked _her_.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

Benedict snapped out of his daydream, Irene's hand rested on his bicep companionably as they lay together in the long grass by the same tree that they had climbed the day they met.

It seemed smaller now, not as imposing as it was that day. Irene gazed up at the long fingered branches and took a breath of clean, uncontaminated air, the likes of which were rare in London.

"I was just thinking of that time you nearly broke my ankle you monster" He replied with a smirk, but his heart wasn't in it.

"Jerk. Are you OK?" She ventured with a frown which scrunched up her pretty features and wrinkled her nose adorably. Benedict admired the little constellation of freckles which peppered her high cheekbones in the summertime. She really was rather beautiful.

"Earth to Benny? You're really out of it today." Irene said with a tut of annoyance.

Benedict shrugged, "Just admiring the view" he murmured, bringing a hand up to brush a stray lock of dark hair from her brow with a shy smile. And then he kissed her.

* * *

><p><strong>Please review! I'd love to know what you think about the new ages and the little bit of matchmaking there! <strong>


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